nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ Ciaran and Iorveth are far too alike, the only difference being that Astarion—for some godsforsaken reason—likes Iorveth. Everything that's amusingly prideful or, at the very least, ignorable when Iorveth does it is irritating when it comes from someone else. So much time with his tadpoled crew has made him forget just how much most people rankle him without even trying. ]

I—

[ He falters. With no plan in mind save for marching right in and facing Cazador head-on, it's difficult to say what would be helpful. He glances at Iorveth for a second, uncertain, before turning his attention back to Ciaran. ]

I wouldn't say no to names. Descriptions. Schedules.

[ If they're lucky, maybe one of these mercenaries can be bought out. If not, well. Back to Plan A, he supposes, and marching in the front door. ]

Where they enter and exit the palace from, if there's any secret passages that I— that the public doesn't know about.

[ It's becoming more and more apparent to Ciaran that this has absolutely nothing to do with Aen Seidhe business and everything to do with personal business. A strange, near-novel thing. It would be slightly more vexing if not for the fact that he thinks Iorveth might deserve a bit of a break, which is the crucial difference between him and his brother-in-arms.

"I see," he says, releasing some of the tension keeping his spine ramrod-straight. "Give me three days, then. I will try to see what I can find."

Iorveth frowns a bit, glancing towards Astarion to gauge whether they have three days to spare, but it's Ciaran's time to cut him off with a reminder: "The Northern Forests aren't inviting us back, Iorveth. At least, not until the shift of power takes, and holds. So..."

A gnaw against his perfectly-smooth lower lip. "...None of us shall think less of you for staying in this city for a bit longer. Even for the sake of a strange High Elf."

Surprise flits across Iorveth's calm features, before he tempers it; he shakes his head a moment later. ]

We'll speak on our business later. [ To Astarion: ] Can we afford the time?

[ His eyebrows lift. The Northern Forests aren't inviting us back. What, is Iorveth persona non grata even after what they did to Henselt? He glances at Iorveth again, eyes questioning, but he doesn't look angry. Not like Astarion would be, if he were in his position.

He can almost hear Iorveth telling him that it isn't the time to have that conversation, so he bites his tongue on the subject, turning his attention back to Iorveth's question. Three days. Any number of things could happen in that time. His siblings could come back, or maybe Cazador's hired mercenaries. If not that, then it's only a matter of time until this brewing problem with the Netherbrain boils over. If that doesn't kill him, he'll be left without the tadpole's protection, helpless against Cazador's commands again. He'll have to hide in the dark like a rat and pray Cazador never finds him. ]

I guess there's little choice.

[ He doesn't hide his displeasure at the prospect — at least until he shrugs, waving his hand nonchalantly, as if it doesn't really matter. ]

We've gone this long. What's a few more days in the grand scheme of things?

[ "Then I won't waste any more time. I'll find you again, when I've more to say."

Quick, decisive Ciaran. Iorveth grips his elbow in thanks before Ciaran allows himself to slip away, stepping through the wrought-iron gate and back into the hushed silence of the park with its marble statues and half-broken structures slowly dappling with sunlight.

Three days. Short enough to feel inadequate for extensive planning, but long enough for other, potentially world-ending catastrophes to happen. Time has become relative and malleable over the past weeks; lifetimes lived in hours. It's enough to overwhelm most, so Iorveth turns to Astarion and gives him a slow, deliberate once-over. Checking in. ]

Tell me what's going on in that meandering head of yours.

[ Iorveth-ese for "you ok?", essentially. ]

[ Drily: ] I thought I had nothing going on in my pretty head.

[ That would be preferable, probably. If having to wait three days wasn't anxiety-provoking enough, having to depend on someone he barely knows to come through is. What if, after all this wasted time, Ciaran has nothing to offer? Perhaps he should make his move now; striking fast might throw Cazador off, if he expects Astarion to still be floundering. Then again, the humiliation of losing everything to Cazador because he acted too quickly out of fear would be too great to bear.

His gaze drifts to the side. Rays of sun are just barely peeking out in the sky, giving everything a soft, golden glow. Deliberately airy, he says, ] I was only thinking that this place looks different in the light.

[ Concern shrugged off, Iorveth steps back. He snorts, mostly because it irritates him somewhat to have his usual tactics used against him. ]

Is that right. [ He breathes slowly, letting his next exhale whistle through his teeth. ] Well, I'll not disturb you if you're admiring the view.

[ A tacit offer to leave Astarion alone with his thoughts, if that's what he wants. Iorveth tilts his head towards the rising sun, angling to catch the first few rays; it's always temperate in this city, he thinks. Like sitting in lukewarm water. He doesn't know how anyone manages it for an extended period of time. ]

This is about you, after all.

[ The space is appreciated. It won't do any good to discuss his misgivings with Iorveth; it'll only make him look weak. Nothing will change if he admits that he's scared. It won't kill Cazador or snap the Netherbrain out of existence.

Three days. He can do that. ]

Who said you weren't part of the view?

[ A playful compliment Iorveth probably won't accept. The glow of dawn does cast Iorveth's face in softer tones, though, a welcome change from his usual severe look. Closer to how he must have looked before he had all of these worries and responsibilities, Astarion thinks. ]

—I'll admit, I did have one other thought. [ Among all of the other thoughts he doesn't feel like talking about, anyway. This thought is about Iorveth, a much more appealing topic. He quirks an eyebrow, eyes inquiring. ] I thought you'd be more upset that your beloved forest isn't welcoming you back with open arms.

[ Oh, Astarion and his surprisingly good aim. Not the compliment, of course, which rolls off of Iorveth's shoulders the way these things always do, but the picking up on his semi-banishment.

He, of course, considers not addressing it altogether. Residual wariness, all-encompassing: guarding himself against inevitable scorn, shuttering himself from anyone providing unnecessary commentary about the plight of his people (and his own plight, by extension).

But he also sees the hypocrisy in it, in demanding candor from Astarion while providing none of his own. So he ventures towards the stone ledge circling the perimeter of the park and settles on its edge, motioning for Astarion to sit next to him if he wants. ]

I won't lie and tell you that it's an easy pill to swallow. [ The trees whisper to him; he doesn't understand. ] But I'd expected it from the start. I remind the others too much of war. Of tragedy.

[ And who wants that, in a burgeoning, potentially free elven state? Iorveth tries to look neutral about it, but he can't keep the melancholy out of his eye, as he readjusts his gloves over his hands. Slightly restless. ]

I've no illusions about what I am, and my own usefulness.

[ Astarion follows, perching beside him. His legs stretch out in front of him, soft blades of grass tickling his ankles. He was honest, saying that the park looks different in the light. The grass is so much greener, the brown of the tree trunks so much more vivid, the stone statues warmer and shinier. Even with his elven eyesight, the darkness turns everything murky and colorless. ]

Ugh. Must you be so— [ He grasps for words figuratively and literally, hands out in front of him. ] Irritatingly composed?

[ Iorveth gets angry about everything, has something harsh to say at every turn... until now, when it would be warranted? Astarion shakes his head, hands flopping down in his lap. ]

After what we did, they should be kissing your feet, don't you think?

[ He laughs at that, low and slightly brittle. ]

Regicide may be a necessary means to achieve a goal, but, in all certainty, will never be celebrated. Not by those attempting to refashion a society under the banner of peace.

[ Something in him rebels at letting the conversation dwell for so long on his circumstances; weren't they here to resolve Astarion's still-pressing issues? He slows down somewhat, evaluating which direction any of these confessions are going to head, balancing what he thinks Astarion might expect against what he can allow.

Ultimately, he rests his elbows on his knees and looks sideways at Astarion, relaxing to let himself take in how the morning sun hits his pale everything-s. He seems silk-spun in this light. ]

You can't stand what I am. [ He laughs again, and this time he sounds more amused than not. ]

Edited 2024-07-25 22:05 (UTC)

[ Astarion bristles at that last comment, furrowing his brow at Iorveth. ]

What is that supposed to mean?

[ He'd laughed, but it hardly sounds funny. He wonders, briefly, if he's being laughed at. If there's one of them that can't stand the other, it's Iorveth, with his endless critique. Whatever relaxation had been in his body language disappears as he folds his arms over his chest again, on the defensive, like a hedgehog growing prickly when it feels threatened. ]

I stood you perfectly well last night.

[ Lest he forget that Astarion deigned to let Iorveth cuddle him. ]

I mean, [ he appends, wryly, ] that you can't stand that I'm Aen Seidhe.

[ He punctuates this with a gesture, a sweeping circle around himself. If he notes the way Astarion's retreated into himself, he doesn't call attention to it yet, choosing to explain himself before he antagonizes Astarion further. ]

You grow sour whenever I talk about my people.

[ Kind of cute, if not for the fact that Iorveth's clan means everything to him. He quirks a brow at Astarion, a facial cue: "am I wrong?" Wanting to know, because he finds himself foolishly curious about Astarion's opinion on these things. ]

[ Quickly, accompanied by a very sour scoff: ] I do not. [ A pause, then a begrudging, ] Well, maybe a little.

[ The fact is that the Aen Seidhe are a constant reminder of what it's like to be victimized. He has too much in common with them, and he'd rather not. This world, he's found, is split up into those who are weak and those who are strong enough to subjugate them. If he had to choose, he'd rather be the latter. Thinking of those elves gives him the same feeling he gets when he thinks about himself: disgust.

But they have something he never had, too. Companionship, camaraderie. Even with six other spawn, Astarion was always alone. He feels envy, too, white hot and entirely childish. ]

I just can't fathom why you're so loyal to them. You should look out for yourself.

[ No one else is going to, in his long experience. ]

[ A righting of his posture, and Iorveth tips his head. Hawklike, emphasized by the clarity in his one eye. He could go on for hours about the plight of the oldest wood elves and the things that they're owed by human usurpers, but he doubts that that's what Astarion really cares about here. He also doubts that what Astarion is saying is really aimed towards him, even.

It's a chip on Astarion's pretty shoulder. Iorveth huffs, a near-sigh, and folds sideways to press his lips to the crest of it. ]

By that logic, I shouldn't be here.

[ Regicide is relatively tame compared to killing a near-unkillable immortal creature, not to mention squaring off against a bunch of murder cultists helmed by a shapeshifter who really wants to turn them all inside out. ] And yet.

[ Loyalty is important to Iorveth, clearly. To a clan, a cause, a person. He peels back, and stretches his legs out in front of him. ]

And yet, [ Astarion echoes. It's as gentle a way to call out his hypocrisy as possible. Surprising, coming from Iorveth; he'd expected a diatribe.

He rests his hands in his lap again, glancing at Iorveth sidelong. His opinion on Iorveth's exile remains the same, of course. For someone who's dedicated everything to the Aen Seidhe, the least those elves could do is welcome Iorveth back. It's difficult to wrap his head around, the concept of sacrificing everything for the sake of an ideal, expecting nothing in return. Sometimes he feels that he and Iorveth are alike in some small but infinitely significant way. Other times, like now, the workings of Iorveth's mind are a conundrum he couldn't possibly solve.

Looking out toward the park again, the flowers blowing gently in the morning breeze, he asks, ] Where will you go after all this, if not your forest?

[ A beat passes. Awfully optimistic, to assume they'll be able to go back anywhere. ]

Assuming, of course, that we aren't murdered by cultists or ritually sacrificed by a vampire or, oh, turned into a tentacled hivemind.

Assuming. [ A light snort. ] ...I'll return to the North anyway. Peace requires maintenance to make sure that it holds, even from the periphery.

[ They'll need a big scary bedtime monster for humans to be afraid of for just a bit longer, he thinks. The stick to everyone else's carrot, until the stick becomes obsolete altogether. He punctuates that thought with a light shrug. ]

After that, who knows? Perhaps I'll return to this raucous den of chaos and demand that you share a bed with me again.

[ Like the night he killed Henselt, maybe Astarion will be the one thing keeping him from screaming his head off in a cave. Feeling stupidly safe next to him again, even when void of purpose. His tone is light, but the slide of his attention up to the sky instead of at Astarion belies that thin sliver of uncertainty he carries with him, the soft little thing he tries to safeguard under five layers of sharpness. ]

[ Nothing good ever lasts, so Astarion isn't surprised at an answer that makes this arrangement ephemeral. It's disappointing nonetheless. After all this is said and done, Iorveth will go back to his real life, and Astarion will still be right here.

Lightly: ] Bold of you, to assume a catch like myself will be waiting around for you.

[ Two hundred years and thousands of people, and he's only ever liked one enough to show his soft underbelly. He'll wait, even if it isn't of his own free will.

All of this talk of the future is putting him in a poor mood. He slips off the stone wall, standing and dusting his trousers off. Better, he thinks, to avoid having to deal with it until the moment that it actually happens. After all, avoiding unpleasant feelings is what he does best. ]

I don't know about you, but I've had quite enough of all this nature.

[ Iorveth lingers on his ledge, watching Astarion realign himself on his feet. Still sitting, he mutters something under his breath in his language, low and melodic; a tendency to say the things he finds most important in the dialect that he feels most comfortable speaking.

The temptation here is to not translate, but he decides to do it just because Astarion seems eager to drop the subject. They can breeze quickly on by. ]

Fickle cat. I'd ask you to come with me if you would.

[ Patting dust from his leg, he looks towards the brightening city, its streets slowly filling with early risers heading to work. He can smell the beginnings of breakfasts being prepared, sounds of children yelling at parents to wake up. Normalcy, under all this chaos. ]

Where are you headed today?

[ They've had this conversation before, Iorveth making the decision for him without asking. It's not farfetched, he supposes. His entire life has been within the confines of this city, for good or bad. While he doesn't belong here, necessarily, it's difficult to imagine anywhere he would belong more. Astarion opens his mouth as if to say something— then closes it, thinking better of it.

He glances out toward the wrought iron gate that trails along the perimeter of the park. A woman hurries to set up her wares at a table nearby, eager to catch passersby before the other shops are open. A man waves to her as he heads toward the harbor, fishing pole in hand. ]

Honestly, I'd hoped we would get more useful information than that, and I'd be murdering my maker today.

[ Then again, he'd also hoped he wouldn't. It's an inevitable confrontation, but one he can't help but dread. ]

I suppose all I'll be killing today is time.

You'd meant to kill him today, [ is slightly incredulous, observed with a hike of one brow. ] Points for ambition, I suppose.

[ He imagines Astarion running into a mansion with three spell scrolls and a dagger in his hand, which might have been funny if Iorveth didn't, you know. Like him so much. He still looks bemused after the first waves of "you can't be serious" recede. ]

Given that I can't trust you not to do something foolish, [ says Iorveth, who is the true clown in this scenario, ] I'll be coming along.

[ A little meaner than he should be; Astarion's been surprisingly resourceful thus far, but desperate people do dumb things. ]

It wouldn't have been foolish if your man had more to say.

[ Throwing the blame on Ciaran is easier than accepting responsibility himself. Iorveth is the one who'd asked if three days was too much; surely, then, he must realize that they're on a time limit. So what, if today would have been a little hasty? Perhaps it would have thrown Cazador for a loop, caught him unawares. ...It's all pointless, anyway, because Ciaran didn't tell him a damn thing he doesn't already know. Astarion sighs, turning his back to Iorveth. ]

But if you want to follow me around like a lost puppy so badly, I won't stop you.

[ His nose is in the air as usual, but he smiles privately once his back is turned, secretly pleased that Iorveth will be spending time with him. An inconvenient feeling that he should be stomping out, knowing that Iorveth has no intentions of sticking around. Easier said than done.

He pauses, thoughtful. It's rare, to have 'time to kill'. That sort of thing was never allowed as a spawn. If he wasn't out hunting for Cazador's next victim, he was by Cazador's side. Hard to say which was worse. ]

You know, [ he says, tapping his chin, ] it's been two centuries and I'm still not sure what passes for fun in this city.

[ Huh. Iorveth hangs back, arms folded across his chest in his default thinking pose, obviously reflecting on the immensity of what it means to spend two centuries anywhere without actually knowing it. Astarion's lived (or rather, unlived) experiences color everything about him, Iorveth realizes. Much like the previous remark about seeing the park more clearly, it occurs to him that Astarion hasn't seen people get up in the morning to get ready for the day since the night he died.

More subtle things that make him more patient than he would be. That, and it also dawns on Iorveth that he, too, has no idea what to make of peacetime.

So. Because he also has no clue what fun in a city looks like: ] Well.

What do you enjoy doing.

[ Putting Astarion on the spot. If Astarion turns this question around on him, he is going to be so annoyed. ]

[ Without a moment of thought, he turns back to face Iorveth, throwing out a disingenuous ] Oh, you know. Stabbing people, stealing things.

[ Astarion hesitates, then. He's learned from his 'family' that this sort of question is often a set-up for scorn and mockery, and in return he's become reticent about sharing anything truly personal. Will Iorveth laugh, tell him how frivolous and foolish he is?

No, he thinks a moment later. Iorveth can be harsh, but he isn't cruel. Not to Astarion, anyhow. ]

—But if that isn't an option, I guess I... [ He quiets, briefly pensive. ] Well, I used to enjoy looking in the fancy shop windows.

[ He'd imagine what it would be like to go inside and throw his money around like the sort of powerful, wealthy man he must have been in his past life. Even in the dark, through the windows, he could always pick out the shiniest thing in the shop. Embarrassment at how pitiful he was wads up inside him, sitting uncomfortably in his chest. ]

And I enjoyed trouncing you in cards.

[ In a different timeline, a different white-haired man will happen upon a magic stone that reveals Iorveth's deeply-held dream to be to sit in front of a fire with a table full of food, smoking the elf equivalent of weed, alone. Said ambitions remain largely the same, in this timeline; Iorveth has no room to judge any other damaged elf about wanting frivolities.

But, first things first: ] You cheated. [ A reminder that Iorveth might yet win if they played without counting cards or using spare ones, but it seems moot at this point. With that out of the way, he unfolds his arms and rests his hand on the pack hanging from his hip, weighing it through touch to assess how much coin he has left after killing a man with more gold than he ever had any right possessing.

Enough to buy something very shiny, he wagers. It's fine to spend it, since he's sure he won't have enough money to buy all the magical artifacts he needs from Sorcerous Sundries, and he wasn't planning to put money in Lorroakan's pocket anyway. ]

...Fancy shops, then. A debt paid for one owed― you made my potential last night alive memorable.

[ So. He might as well do the same, over the next three days. ]

[ If these are to be his last days alive, Iorveth has already made them memorable. He's given Astarion something he's never had: brief moments of respite. There's never been a person he'd rather spend time with than be alone, never someone whose arms around him didn't make him feel sick. Even if this sacrifice turns him into a lowly lemure in the eighth layer of the Hells, he'll remember how it felt to kiss someone and like it.

Which, gods, of course he can't say that. ]

Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way to make it memorable.

[ He can't help himself; he presses a quick kiss to Iorveth's mouth, praying Ciaran isn't waiting above in the trees to interrupt them again. ]

Although, if it's all the same, I'd really rather it weren't my last days alive. But, ah, we can discuss that unpleasantness later.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject