[Gale's eyes flick to the bottle, its contents as normal as he could have hoped for. Liquid courage fuels him; he gives a nod.]

I cannot guarantee the flavor. Even with perfect proportions, I assume the elixirs will color the aftertaste. I have tried to distill them to their purest form so that so that I need as little of them as possible.

[Of course, making it work in a controlled sample is far different from making it work within his body. He chews his lip, the wine allowing his feelings of frustration to slip from him.]

You deserve to have this. Everyone else gets to eat what I make for them. Why must it be different for the one most important to me?