you must know you did nothing wrong.
"What a comforting thought, but you'll have to excuse me if I don't find myself particularly convinced. Had it not been, I'm not entirely certain I'd feel this way."
But luck so fleeting has entirely failed him, and so he, split open, inevitably rots. He sits there working, rolling and rolling that length of his gauze. Fetid, Gale seems half like a corpse, a whole foot in the grave and his orb all an epitaph. It's not an image he fancies and further from a memory he'd cared to impress, but regrettably, there's Eragon now to behold him in his folly. How embarrassing. He's bleeding and he's cracking and it's oh so embarrassing.
Sat by the river, Gale tries for light, but the laugh he manages is like plunging for dredges. About his arm, a rivulet of blood sluices gluttonous and thick. He'd fought viciously today and his body plainly loathes it. To think that magic, his love, would be the very thing that tears him... He fumbles the roll. What a shame. His knuckles half-ruptured pull tight when he fists them.
"I never quite new when to respect my limits," he says.
Love. Perhaps he had loved too deeply, too much.