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The old man they find wandering in the deserted Sharran temple on their way out of the underdark is strange. Unnervingly so. He reeks of magic and power, the air around him almost electric. The facade of a doddery old fool would have worked, had it not been for that. As it is, it does nothing but raise Astarion’s hackles. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots between this probable archmage, and the former one they have tucked away at camp.
He dithers, talking nonsense at them, until finally he asks about Gale. He has “important news”, apparently, “for Gale’s ears only”. As if Gale won’t turn around and tell the entire camp whatever it is within seconds. Or, he’ll tell Astarion at least.
They haven’t talked about their disagreement since it happened. He’s not even sure if disagreement is the right word, but fight feels wrong, a fight requires two active participants. Any other words he could find for it stick in his throat, unsaid, Gale’s readiness to accept punishment leaving a bad taste in his mouth. The closest simile he can allow is calming an often kicked dog. Petting down hackles raised in fear, not anger, neither bark nor bite, just terrified of their masters ire.
The wizard himself has shown no signs of being affected by what happened, having gotten up bright and early the following day to prepare breakfast, talking circles around everyone else the entire morning as if to make up for his previous silence. Though, he has been lingering closer to Astarion. Keeping step with him when traveling, sharing the same log by the side of the campfire, knees almost brushing. The flicker of Gale’s body heat which lodged itself in his chest flares at the proximity, greedy for the warmth radiating off of the other man.
They debate whether or not to send the old man to their camp. Karlach and Lae’zel don’t seem to clock him as anything more than his facade, unsurprisingly, but he trades a knowing glance with Shadowheart. At least someone in this party knows how to use their brain. “We were heading there anyways. We can walk with you.”
He ignores Karlach and Lae’zel’s confused looks, Lae’zel’s complaints effectively silenced by Shadowheart’s perfectly timed elbow. They have just come from clearing out the forge, they probably should head back to camp before venturing into whatever horror lies in wait for them on the surface. Making sure that this old man doesn’t do anything to Gale is just a bonus. He doesn’t really care. It would just be inconvenient if something would happen to the wizard after all that effort he went through to fix him.
The camp is quiet when they get there, most everyone still there busying themselves with packing up. Gale is carrying a stack of books from his tent to the camp chest, unwilling to keep them in his pack once they actually break camp. It’s clear when he spots them. His grasp on his books slips, frozen mid-step. “Elminster?”
The old man puffs up a bit, leaving the stoop of his spine behind as he approaches Gale. “The very same, Gale. And a fair bit miffed he is too, finding himself forced to expose his best pair of boots to so many miles of country road on your behalf.”
“I take it you know the geezer then?” Karlach’s voice is bright, and some of the tension leeches out of Gale as he takes in his friends next to the mage. “He was just wandering the wastes, asking about you, do you have any idea what he’s doing here?” She approaches him, making to pat him on the shoulder before she catches herself, making a show of patting the air above it instead.
He visibly swallows before he speaks. “I’d assume you’re here for me, though it’s unclear to me what I could have done to deserve such an audience.”
Gone is the doddering old man, and in his place is someone who clearly holds the power of an arch mage, strong and steady in a way old men just should not be. “I was bid to spare neither time nor my own self to find you. She sent me, Gale. You know of whom I speak.”
Something in Gale’s posture tightens, like a schoolboy stood in front of the principal, tense and awaiting judgment. “But why ? Out with it Elminster, please!”
“Young man,” Elminster’s voice dips, Gale’s impression of a chastised schoolboy only growing. “Has your sojourn away from Waterdeep washed away your decorum as well as your patience?” Despite the older wizard’s flamboyant speech, Astarion finds his attention riveted to Gale. To the way he seems to both shrink back and straighten up at the same time, pulling this role onto himself like a well worn cloak, attentive, apologetic. “Nigh a tenday I’ve gone without honest fare worthy of the name - drank naught but what the sky entitled my thirst.” The man’s entire demeanor seems to shift again, back to the harmless old man. “Why, some bread, cheese, and a cup of wine would appear unto me a feast! Surely you won’t begrudge me a mite of rest and repast before I get ‘out with it’?”
Had he not been stood there to see it, he would scarcely have believed how well the old man weaves between roles. As it is, it disquiets him. Nothing good can come of this messenger, no matter how harmless he chooses to appear.
Lingering at the edges of the conversation, it’s Astarion who replies. “We’re not in the habit of talking in vagabonds.” He does not like this man, and he has little patience for his games.
“Oh? And what is he, then,” Elminster replies, gesturing to Gale. “Wandering these forlorn barrens over seven hundred miles from home?”
Any decorum Astarion had had is strained to breaking at the implication, and he’s saved from making a fool of himself by doing anything as thoughtless as attacking him by Shadowheart, who is also listening in. “I suppose we could part with a few of our rations.”
“And a great kindness that would be!” He exclaims, sketching a bow towards her. When next he speaks, his voice is that of a disappointed mentor again. “See, Gale? Even in these barren parts, the art of hospitality begets inspired new works if one only keeps up the practice.”
No. Astarion has changed his mind. Killing the old man is appropriate and thoughtful actually. Where does he get off, calling Gale’s contribution to the party that of a lost vagabond, chastising him like a child? Human age is foreign to him, but even he can tell that Gale is well past full grown. The condescension dripping off of the old wizard is disgusting, and half familiar. Reminiscent of the barbed words Cazador would throw around when anyone displeased him, the practiced disappointment, meant to tear them down from the inside.
Gale is shrinking back further into himself, his face growing blank. “Oh, for the love of…” There’s real irritation in it, but it’s almost muffled, pressed down under so much else. Two quick steps has him next to the wizard, keeping his eyes on Elminster the whole way.
The old man sighs. “Fine, fine, I’ll turn a deaf ear to the clarion calls with which my scorned stomach besieges me. Graver matters are at hand.”
If the fucker doesn’t get to the point soon, then the grave matter at hand will be his . Looking around, it seems the rest of the party have left them to their conversation, respectful of Gale’s privacy. Well, except for him, and Shadowheart of course, but someone needs to keep the situation under control.
“Plenty to digest, after all. A good deal to stew over, if you will. Words ladled with import should be savored to better absorb their meaning, wouldn’t you agree?”
“ Elminster .” The sharpness of Gale’s tone cuts into the tension in the air, losing momentum halfway through, until it too is hovering between them.
The mage looks chastened, at least, and looks away before speaking. “Right.” He coughs. “You see…” He shifts in place, visibly uncomfortable now that he can’t deflect any more. “I, er…” He clears his throat, stalling, as if that will make whatever he has to say any better. “Gale, m’boy, I’ve come to address a most pressing matter. I’ll speak as plainly as I can, forswearing the accustomed frills that decorate my speech.”
He’s so caught up in wondering how agonizing it is to listen to the wizard usually if this is him speaking plainly that he almost misses the possessive. Gale being his boy. It rankles. This clearly powerful mage has done nothing to help him, has done nothing but belittle him, and he thinks he should have a claim over him?
“I’m here on behalf of Mystra.”
Oh, well, that explains it.
“The message and the charge I bring you are hers.”
If there’s one thing none of them need right now, it’s a divine order. They don’t have the time, and frankly, he cannot imagine a less deserving deity to ask it right now. “What message and charge would that be?” He’s sure his disdain is clear in his voice, but he cannot be bothered to put up an act right now.
Next to him, Gale pulls himself up slightly, adopting Astarion's posture before he speaks. “The long-awaited question. Now - if you please, Elminster - for the too long awaited answer.”
“You know where you went wrong, Gale. We needn’t dwell on that here and now. But even so, you’re to be given a chance of redemption.”
“Mystra would consider… forgiveness?” Any composure Gale had regained cracks.
For a second, he looks just like he did in Astarion’s tent. Lost, desperate. Willing to do anything for absolvement.
“She would consider what she considers to be forgiveness.”
Astarion almost laughs at that. Oh, yes, her version of forgiveness. The version where Gale is still in the wrong, and still scorned, but is allowed back to break himself upon her altar at her whim.
“Mystra is aware of the misadventures that have befallen you all. She knows of your strife with the Absolute, that most insidious of evils.”
“If even the gods know, why are we facing these threats alone?” Never has he been more glad that Shadowheart is nosy. Had she not been there to answer, had he been the one to speak, he’s not sure what he would have said, but the rage swelling in his chest tells him it would not have been advisable.
“They choose the instruments of their will with great precision. Sometimes the single drops we think we are do not realize what waves we are building up to be.” He’s turned more towards Shadowheart than Gale now, speaking past him. “Do not discount yourself, and by the same token, do not discount your enemy. You must know that the Absolute is more dangerous than you can possibly conceive. It threatens all who live - even those who are undying. It threatens the gods, the Weave, the very fabric of the universe itself.” He turns to Gale again, face drawn. “That is why I have come here to charge you, Gale, with its destruction. It is Mystra’s belief that only you can.”
Shadowheart, bless her, is able to read a room. He has let go of the reigns of this conversation, and she picks them up next to him with little issue. “Gale alone? How so?”
Gale’s voice is thick as he answers. “The orb.”
“Precisely. Mystra has granted me the power to stop the clock, as it were, on the orb’s rush to overpower you. Instead, you will be able to unleash its lethal combustion at will.”
Oh! So that’s what the goddess is charging him with. No biggie. Just go kill yourself. Then I’ll forgive you! Don’t worry about the fact that you’ll be dead, it’s fine , you can finally give me enough of yourself when you willingly walk to your death for me! She gets better and better the more he learns!
He’s so incandescent with rage that the voice in his head barely registers. His dream visitor popping in to give his unasked for opinion. “This could be a help or hinderance - we shall have to see.” Yeah right. This is nothing but a hinderance, and the fucker’s willingness to consider it drops him far in Astarion’s estimations.
“You must find the Heart of the Absolute, whatever that may be, and use yourself as the catalyst that will burn it from this world.”
He cringes away from the thought of it. From the knowledge that Gale would agree to it. He may not like or trust the old man, but there must be some way to make him see reason. “That’s monstrous! You’re tasking him to kill himself!” Too many of his emotions fly wildly in his voice, fear and rage pitching him higher than normal, but he would rather be embarrassed about it later than watch things unfold.
It’s almost startling when Gale takes a step forwards, speaking in a flat voice. “He is not, but it seems Mystra is.”
“It brings me no pleasure saying this, my friend, but such is Mystra’s will. Yours must be the sacrifice that will undo the Absolute. And for your sacrifice, you will be redeemed - such is Mystra’s promise.” The man seems genuinely apologetic, for what it’s worth. It’s worth very little to Astarion at the moment, though. His attention is caught up entirely in Gale. In how his eyes have gone glassy and vacant, how his breathing has sped up, and in how his face is set in a too believable mask of still acceptance.
He shares a glance with Shadowheart, taking comfort in her matching grimace.
“With that, I’ve said my sorry piece, and need only bestow upon thee the charm I was bid.”
The old man starts chanting, waving his hands in front of a stone faced Gale. Light flares around them, and he can smell the magic in the air, how strong it is, raising the hair at the back of his neck with its pure magnitude. It is not some simple charm, it is so much more than he has ever seen cast before.
Finally, the light dims. Neither of them look changed, but there is an aura of something lingering in the air. “Both charge and charm have been committed into your care.” He nods to Gale before turning to Astarion and Shadowheart. “To you, I commit into care Gale himself. I count on you to shepherd him well on this strangest of journeys.”
His words catch inside Astarion. Commit into care . Shepherd. The fucking tag in his ear . It snaps. “He is not some piece of fucking cattle! He’s a person !” He draws a sharp breath. “You don’t get to send him to die!”
The memory of how powerful that swell of magic had been is the only thing keeping him from lunging at him. How dare he. And Gale won’t even say no because he doesn’t know what to want other than forgiveness.
One of Shadowheart’s hands finds its way into his shoulder, grounding him, holding him back, should he still choose to do something stupid. Her calm voice is a pulled taut wire, threatening to break and let loose gods knows what. “There’s still a long journey ahead. We’ll find another way.”
Gale lets out a sad attempt at a chuckle. “Or some other fortune altogether.”
Elminster gives him a sad smile in return. “Like moons make swell and wane the nescient seas, so too the sky strewn gods ordain the tidal fates of mortal days. And yet - a notion born in lonely hours - come ebb, come flow come all that is beyond the breadth of our dominion: be a moon unto yourself. Even the waves of fate can break upon the shores of will.” The roundabout encouragement sits oddly with him. Looking at Gale, it seems to settle something inside him though, still flat, still still, but his eyes are not quite as glassy. “Farewell, my friend.”
Gale is not too far off sounding like a person as he replies. “Farewell, Elminster. I'm glad she chose you.”
Astarion is glad too, despite everything, because he knows how harsh the people sent to bring an unruly pet to heel can be. Disquieting and insensitive Elminster may be, but his displeasure with his task was clear. He doesn’t like him, but better someone like him than someone like Godey.
Both he and Shadowheart turn to watch the man leave, and when they turn back Gale has left. He’s halfway to his tent, striding purposefully, and both he and Shadowheart seem to agree to give him a moment.
That moment stretches, no one saying anything, the rest of the party seemingly noticing the tension in the air. A first for them, but appreciated. The time alone does, however, allow for the conversation they just had to echo in his skull.
Mystra’s forgiveness.
The thought alone feels dirty.
The absolute gall. To throw Gale out only to order him to kill himself the moment it suits her. Expecting him to jump at any opportunity to make up for what he’s done. “What can I do to make it right?” echoes in his head, the desperation in Gale’s voice still fresh in his mind. If that’s how a disagreement with Astarion leaves him, what sort of hell is the man’s mind now?
The wizard himself is sitting in front of his tent, staring blankly into the air. If his response to Astarion has been that of a kicked dog, this was a deer in a hunters sights. His chest heaves with fast shallow breaths, but just like before he is silent. The entire camp is silent. There is no conversation around the campfire, no jokes, nothing but concerned looks traded back and forth. Well, that, and meaningful glances towards Gale clearly directed at him.
How did the wizard become his responsibility?
He fixed a problem once . A problem he caused himself, even. Whatever this is, it’s not his fault. The gnawing worry in his chest is completely incidental. The desire to grab Gale and shake him until he’s normal again is motivated by nothing but a desire to not slow the party down.
Any progress towards Moonrise has stalled entirely, not even Lae’zel trying to get them back in motion.
No night falls, the dark of the underdark constant and suffocating, but his companions start retreating to their tents. One by one they fall away, until the only two left are him and Gale. He’s not sure the wizard has even noticed. He hasn’t moved except to blink since he sat down, eyes locked on the same point off in the distance.
What motivates him to finally stand is something akin to resignation. A mixed drink of dread and worry and rage. It sits heavy in his chest, uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than that, though, is seeing Gale this lifeless, this empty.
He sits down next to him, just a few inches between them, yet Gale still doesn’t move. Tentatively he puts his hands on Gale’s knee, the other man’s entire body coming alive in a flinch as he turns to face him.
“Oh… Astarion… why are you here?” His tone is flat, his speech halting, so very different from the quiet fear he has seen before. He sounds like he’s already dead, as if the order from Mystra supersedes even the beating of his own heart.
“You know, I’m not actually sure.” The pressure in his chest can go unmentioned. He doesn’t want to think about it, and Gale doesn’t need to know. He lets his hand linger on Gale’s knee, heat slowly spreading through his fingers from the contact. “But seeing as no one else seems inclined to talk some sense into you, it’s me you’re stuck with.”
That prompts a weak chuckle from Gale. “You? The voice of reason? I can’t imagine the toll that’s taking on your image.”
“About the same that your silence is taking on yours I’d think.”
He looks down, his shoulders collapsing inwards. “Well, hopefully not for too long.”
“Gale, you cannot be seriously considering this.” He knows he is. He knew he would be from the moment that old fuck asked it of him.
“But-” He tips his head up, eyes alight. “I can finally make things right. I can make up for my mistakes. I’ll be forgiven .” The look of hope on Gale’s face is heartbreaking. A starving man offered a feast, a lost wandered in the desert seeing an oasis, a supplicant receiving benediction. “She said she’ll forgive me.”
“And what good will forgiveness do you if you’re dead?” He knows he’s pleading now, he just doesn’t know what else to do.
“Then I’ll have it at least. I’m- I’ve longed for this chance for so long. I just want to fix this.” A small sob catches in his throat. “For once I just want to be able to fix something.” Whatever power was holding Gale still shatters, short quick breaths turning into heaving gulps of air, a tremor building in his entire body. He curls in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest, dislodging Astarion’s hand in the process. It’s the same silent tears as last time, no sobs or sniffles, only painful sounding breaths and wet cheeks.
This time, there is no forgiveness he can grant. No words he can think of which can lighten Gale’s burden. That bitch of a goddess threw out her plaything, and now she doesn’t want anyone else to have him. She has dug herself so deep into this man that tearing her out would bring something vital with it. The orb might sit in Gale’s chest, eating him from the inside, but Mystra has already consumed him entirely.
All he can do is grab Gale by the back of the neck and pull him in, hiding his face in Astarion’s shoulder. There are no words for this. Still he tries. “We will fix this. We will find another way.” Silent sobs shake Gale’s body as he collapses against him, clinging to Astarion like a lifeline. Hesitantly, he rests his other hand on Gale’s back, rubbing small circles, feeling how it heaves with every breath. Tremors shudder through the other man, his hands shaking where they clench in his shirt. “Please just tell me that you’ll let us.”
The shoulder of his shirt is soaked through with tears, his neck grown damp from Gale’s stuttering breathing, before the other man speaks again. It’s just a whisper, so weak even his elven hearing wouldn’t have picked it up had Gale still been sitting by his own power. “I don’t want to die.”
He tightens his arms around him. ”And you won’t, if I can help it. Nothing is worth your life. Not even her forgiveness. Especially not her forgiveness.”
His breath hitches on his next words. “I’m sorry.” Still in that small lost tone, still so very quiet and pained.
“Don’t apologize. This is not your fault.”
Gale pulls away, hands flat against Astarion’s chest. His eyes are wet and red rimmed, tears still caught in his beard. “This is nothing but my fault.”
“Oh so you know that this was what was going to happen?”
Anger flares in Gale’s eyes, and its presence feels almost like a balm. There is still something alive in Gale, even if it’s suffocating under the weight of all his guilt. “Ignorance is not an excuse! My actions were my own, and my failure even more so!”
“And Mystra had no part in it? In conditioning you to yearn for her approval to the point of self destruction?” He lays a hand across the mark of the orb. “If she cared, would she not have explained it to you? She is the mother of all magic, she can’t not have known.”
Gale bats his hand away. “She was not my keeper ! I was no lost fawn wandering into a trap, I went behind her back on purpose.”
The dimming light of the campfire catches on Gale’s earring, stirring a hopeless rage in Astarion. His own marks of ownership are much more permanent, yes, but none as brazenly displayed as Mystra’s claim on Gale. “Your keeper she may not have been, but she sure fashions herself your owner.” His hand darts out, whip fast, and flicks the earring, watching it swing against the other man’s neck.
Gale catches it, clutching it against his neck to still it. “I- You- she is my goddess . She was my lover . If anyone has a claim to me, it’s her.”
He holds a hand up, pointedly counting on his fingers as he speaks. “You worship her, you build your life around her, give everything you are to her, and what does she give you back?”
“She is magic. Magic is my life . She has been my life for as long as I can remember. She has given me everything that I am.” His voice is unsteady as he speaks, stilted almost as if reciting something learned by rote. How many times has he said those words to himself? Justifying her actions, minimizing his own worth.
Despite his best efforts, Astarion’s voice rises in anger. “And yet, the moment you err, you are thrown out in the cold. Disregarded until she had use for you again.” He drives a finger into Gale’s chest, needing something to stick, hoping he can somehow just drive his words in by pure force. “It’s not enough that she has you tagged like cattle, she sends you off to the slaughter as well. I was told to shepherd you to your death .” A panicked laugh builds in his chest, and he doesn’t know what to do other than let it out. “I don’t know how to make you see. At least I had the sense not to love my abuser.”
Pure indignation has Gale rising up onto his knees. “She is not- “
Astarion is not having any of it though, laughter born of fear still bubbling in his throat. “Oh please, like knows like, and you, my dear, have been abused.”
Gale opens his mouth as if to say something, though no words escape as he attempts to process Astarion’s words, eyes blinking rapidly. He pulls himself together after a moment, digging his pointer finger into Astarion’s sternum as he speaks. “What happened to you is incomparable to this. You were a slave! Treated as an object! ”
He doesn’t shrink away from Gale’s outburst, instead pushing into his finger to get closer, to make sure he’s looking Gale in the eyes as he speaks. “And breaking yourself apart upon her altar for scraps is so very different. Why is your life hers to forfeit, if she doesn’t own you?” He is relishing in Gale’s renewed energy, in being able to prompt something from him, even if it’s just indignation, just anger. It’s miles better than the silence.
Gale’s face is set, a hard mask. “Yes. It is different. You didn’t deserve it. I do.”
“That is bullshit,” Astarion scoffs.
“I asked for it, prayed for it, I begged her to be her chosen.” With every sentence Gale is pushing against his chest, emphasizing his words.
“And I begged Cazador to turn me, to save me from death. Neither of us knew what we were asking for.” Even though talking about it hurts, a sharp pain in the back of his throat, shame a cloying cloud of dust in his lungs, he needs Gale to see . “We couldn’t have known.”
“I may have been young, but I knew what I was asking for.”
Astarion stops. “How young Gale?” His mind’s eye flashes the chastened schoolboy who had worn Gale’s skin just hours earlier, the ease with which Elminster fell into the role of a disappointed mentor. Not just condescension then, habit.
Gale freezes, clearly unwilling to answer the question. Clearly knowing that his answer, whatever it is, will make the situation worse.
He grabs hold of Gale’s hand, squeezing it. “How young were you when she first approached you?”
It’s with a pained look that Gale finally answers. “Ten. I was ten when she first spoke to me.”
Whatever type of rage unfurls in Astarion is new and terrifying. He doesn’t know the intricacies of mortal aging, but he knows that ten is much too young. He wants to break something. He wants to scream. He wants to tear Gale’s earring off and hide him away somewhere where Mystra will never see him again. But he can’t. Giving in to any of that right now would break whatever tenuous trust he is building with Gale, would send the man back into the void he inhabited before Astarion sat down next to him. It would leave Gale walking willingly to his own execution.
Instead of the murder he wants to commit, in place of violence and destruction and bloodshed, he leans forwards, telegraphing his movements clearly, and grabs Gale’s other hand, cradling them together. “You couldn’t have known what you were asking for. This is not your fault. She molded you to ask and beg and give, it’s not your fault that you did. Not when she was the one who made you like that.”
Gale’s face crumples in genuine confusion. “But I asked for it.”
Astarion feels his own face crumple as well. “It was not a request that should have been granted. What she has done, how she has treated you, it wasn’t right. But it is not your fault that it wasn’t. You have done nothing wrong.” He takes a deep breath, making sure that Gale’s eyes meet his before he speaks again, needing him to hear, to understand. “Gale. You were a victim.”
“Oh.”
“And you don’t have to give your life for her forgiveness. She has taken too much from you already.”
Gale turns his hands over in Astarion’s grasp, holding on to him in turn. “But even so, it’s our best option to deal with the Absolute. It’s too big for us, too powerful. It’s scaring the gods .”
“In my eyes, doing that would be a waste of a perfectly good cult we get recognized as chosen in and could probably take over.” He squeezes Gale’s hands, trying for a smile. “And also, a waste of a perfectly good Gale.”
The laugh he gets out of him is halfway to a sob, but it is still a laugh.
“None of us know what the future will bring, but I don’t think this is our only option.” It smarts to use the man’s words, but Elminster had been right. “ Even the waves of fate can break upon the shores of will, and I’m determined not to let this happen. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am quite stubborn when I want to be.”
Gale’s smile feels more real than anything else he has done during this entire conversation, and seeing it loosens something that has been coiled around his lungs.
Maybe they don’t have all the answers right now, but if some bitch goddess thinks she can swoop in and order them around, if she thinks she can take Gale , then she’s got another thing going.
“Hey Shadowheart…”
“Yes?”
“So, you know a lot of stuff about gods and goddesses, yes?”
“Yes…” she drags out her answer into a question.
“So, if, hypothetically, one were to try and, let’s say, harm one, how would one accomplish that?”
“Hypothetically, mhm.”
“Yes, now please answer the question.”
“Astarion, I’m not helping you kill a goddess just because she was mean to your boyfriend.”
“I- That is not what this is- He is not my-” Her smirk shuts him up. Now he remembers why he hates the fact that she’s perceptive. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“And you better not!”
He stalks away, an uncomfortable feeling brewing in his chest. He tolerates the wizard, yes. Tolerates him the most out of all the party members. He enjoys spending time with him, and appreciates his insights, even when they’re delivered in five times the necessary word count. He doesn’t like it when he feels bad. That doesn’t mean that he… He hasn’t… No, it can’t be. That would be stupid of him. He wouldn’t have fallen in love with someone and not noticed, right?