[Astarion's hand clenches and closes on empty air but he doesn't resist Gale's pull. Even if he still can't bring himself to look the other man in the eye again quite yet. The unspoken words hang between them before they're caught up in the maelstrom of guilt, disgust, and anger churning inside Astarion.]

Where do my other talents lie, then? What other skill of mine might please you in the same way?

[He swallows as his fingers dig into his palm with an intensity that leaves his hand trembling in Gale's grasp. A thought forms in his mind, coalescing within the turbulent center of his love for Gale, his hatred for Cazador, his own hurt and the ill-defined shape of the man that he is.]

If the way that I want to be so much as echos the thing he made me, am I left with no choice but to tear the page out and discard it like some crude palimpsest? I won't let him define me by denying me the chance to be what he took from me either.