nibbling | open post pt. 2.

You can't possibly think yourself as weak as that.

[ So who does? Cazador? Obviously. It's been two hundred years of reinforcement, the patronization dripping from the parchment that Astarion'd ripped to shreds this morning. Boy, son, child. Skeletal teeth forming the word dog, a lycanthrope saying that Astarion smells like his master.

And what's Iorveth, in all of this? A man that Astarion has liked for maybe two tendays. Someone that Astarion assumes will leave after the business of the brain is done, and maybe he isn't wrong－ maybe their paths will diverge. But it aches to think of Astarion cloistered in this death-shaped mansion and all of its putrid secrets, believing himself fortunate when all the world stretches out beyond its borders.

It's not the most productive thing in the world, fighting before their actual fight, but Iorveth will be Iorveth. ]

You're no roach, you fool.

[ Sometimes he feels like one, small and easily squished under the heel of people bigger and stronger. Iorveth once said that Astarion was afraid of everything, and although it had irritated him to hear it, he was right. He's afraid of what his future holds, scared of all the possibility. He's been burned so many times that his emotional skin has been charred clean off; every touch has the potential to hurt.

It isn't Iorveth's responsibility to make him feel better. In fact, he shouldn't rely on anyone to make him feel better. Despite knowing this, he looks at Iorveth with the most embarrassingly pathetic frown he's ever worn. ]

What am I, in your eyes?

[ Fishing for compliments, even now. ]

[ His brow hikes at the bluntness of that well-aimed question, and he surveys their surroundings, glances at the red eyes still glowing in the near distance, his expression pulled into a suggestion of a question: what, here? But a closer look at the shape of Astarion's frown makes him reconsider the pushback, and the pallid cast of the cavern's blue-green light over Astarion's stark features reminds Iorveth that if not now, when?

Still, he starts with a familiar protest: ] Words. [ They never encompass the fullness of truth; that's why diplomacy fails so often, in Iorveth's opinion. He takes one of Astarion's always-cold hands, and plays his thumb over the ridges of pale knuckles. ]

You're vexing. [ Not a compliment, but he continues. ] A contradiction, in every sense. Afraid and courageous in the same breath, unthinking and clever. You've been taught to doubt your worth, but you cling to your inherent value with furious indignation.

[ Thinking aloud, like a hawk circling its prey. Boiling his point down, gradually, to its core components. He doesn't want to admit this, based on the simple truth that an elf with no future should be reticent to give his heart to someone with all the future in the world, but Astarion asked. ]

You defy definition. Furthest from my expectations, and closest to my heart. [ Slowly, as if saying this is an ache in the back of his throat. A scary thing to admit. ] Resilient and beautiful, you're you. What else could you wish to be?

[ Yes, here. There's hundreds, maybe thousands of captives watching them with anticipation, praying to whatever god will listen that they'll decide to free them, but they don't matter. What matters is what Iorveth thinks. It's always mattered, even when Iorveth thought of him as nothing more than an idiot with a nice smile, his scolding irksome even though Astarion had done nothing to earn his praise. He'd spent centuries having everyone he met take his facade at face value, but Iorveth saw right through him.

In the dim light of the crypt, the tips of his ears glow pink, and he casts his gaze to the side bashfully. His mouth quivers, the sort of wavering smile that happens when one wants badly to suppress their pleasure but can't quite do it. ]

When you put it that way, I suppose I have no choice but to keep amazing you.

[ Being on the brink of a catastrophic decision with hundreds of starving souls waiting for deliverance is probably not the right time to want to kiss someone. Then again, it might be curtains on this whole affection business if ascension does happen, so Iorveth leans forward to press his mouth against the tip of one pale-pink ear, nosing it gently. ]

Don't ascend.

[ Finally, in plain terms. Murmured against Astarion's ear, before he pulls back. ]

This place will kill your heart.

[ I can't bear that, is implicit. An embarrassing thing to say, from someone who professed to disliking poetry; Iorveth glances to the side, brows slightly furrowed. Not embarrassed, but prepared to be laughed at for his choice of words, at the grandiose expression of something so small and personal. ]

[ Astarion would have laughed only as recently as a few tendays ago. Sincerity isn't something that comes easily to him, but it's the thing he most longs to see in others. Despite every protest, there's little that sets his heart alight as much as receiving the softness and kindness he's been deprived of for so long. Just like drinking blood for the first time after starving for centuries, he wants nothing more than to swallow all of that affection down with greedy gulps, afraid that it'll be taken away from him. All of that is to say that he melts, reduced to a puddle of fond goo. ]

—All right.

[ He feels a little surprised at saying it himself, silver eyebrows raising even as he speaks the words, but he also can't imagine denying Iorveth when he's entreating him so earnestly. His heart may be cold and unbeating, but it isn't stone. Iorveth continues to defrost it. ]

If you think I can face the world without it... [ There's a slight nervousness to his voice, like he's not positive himself. Of course he isn't — the world is a dark and scary place.

But it's also where he met Iorveth, so it can't be all bad. ] I'll have to believe you.

[ Concession and belief doesn't solve the problem at hand, and Iorveth wanting Astarion to live a full, free life doesn't guarantee his future. Look at the current state of the Aen Seidhe as an example: what, in Iorveth's almost two centuries of fighting, has he really protected?

He always wants more than the world is willing to give. Funny, he thinks－ he should be the one sort of person that Astarion can't stand. But Astarion says all right, and absorbs Iorveth's opinion like a proud animal offering something soft and previously untouchable.

It's untenable, liking someone this way. Instinct tells Iorveth to pull Astarion to his chest, so he does: a brief, two-armed embrace that leaves him feeling both bolstered and vulnerable. Open. ]

...I'm amenable to stroking your ego, now and again. When it's warranted.

[ "I believe in you", roughly. He lets go of Astarion, and looks over his shoulder at the corridor still extending into the darkness. ]

You'll kill Cazador. The rest of the world will be yours to find, once the deed is done.

Okay.

[ It's all there is to say. He has to believe that it's true, that he'll lop Cazador's head off or drive a stake through his heart or burn him to cinders. The alternative, that Cazador consumes everything Astarion is—including his very soul—and comes out the other side even more powerful than before, is unbearable.

He curls his fingers around Iorveth's wrist to lead him further into the crypt, through that darkened hallway and down the steps until they come to a suspended platform, ornate and elaborate in design. Pillars jut from the floor, encircling the perimeter, giving the room a menacing aura. In the center of it all lies a coffin propped at an angle, just as ornamental as the rest of the crypt, its embossed design dark and shiny.

Cazador is in there. The thought grips his heart like a vice, the muscles in his throat tightening. He feels last night's blood coming up his esophagus, and he claps his free hand over his mouth to suppress it. His other hand grasps Iorveth's wrist so tightly that the area blanches. Fear and fury swirl in his mind, muddying his thoughts. ]

Hells, [ he whispers, ] I can't believe I'm here.

[ At the end and the beginning of everything. No plan, save for 'hit him until he stops moving'. Astarion swallows. ]

I want that damn mace.

[ Small comforts: the ritual doesn't seem to have started in earnest, not that Iorveth would know what that would even look like. If nothing else, the other spawn siblings are absent, and the braziers hanging from the cavern's ceiling are unlit; the stillness is deafening, the sound of his pulse in his chest the loudest thing in the sprawling space.

Astarion's grip around his wrist is bruisingly hard; Iorveth makes no attempt to dislodge it as he reaches inside his pack for the requested weapon, its unyielding light almost too bright in the oppressive dim. Iorveth hands it to Astarion, his focus resting on his companion's now-familiar profile before settling on the tilted, gilded coffin, the presence inside it like a void.

Is he nervous? Afraid? Maybe the former, but not the latter. Strange, considering that Cazador probably could vaporize him if given the opportunity. All Iorveth feels is revulsion, and the simmering desire to see something so malevolent dead. ]

A humbling moment. Not for you, but for him.

[ Will it be? Probably not. Monsters don't learn, don't reflect on their wrongdoings. But it won't matter once said monster is dead, broken and bloodied and bent, unable to do a single thing about its own demise. ]

[ Astarion takes a moment to look at the mace, emitting warm sunlight. After the Netherbrain, he probably won't ever get to feel the sun on his face ever again. Hells, depending on how things go down right now, he might never feel it again after this moment. He closes his eyes, holding the mace close, basking in its heat for one last second before releasing Iorveth's wrist and stalking up to the coffin.

It's funny. It looks so damn ordinary. Everything that has made him suffer is contained in it, and it's just a fucking box. He shoves the lid off with some effort, grunting as it clatters to the floor. Loudly. Astarion barely even notices the sound.

Cazador's pale face is peaceful, restful. His long black hair is splayed out behind him, his elegant hands crossed over his middle. Astarion tilts his head, staring. He's a monster, but lying here like this, he just looks like... a person. Who could imagine, looking at him, the terror he instilled? Who could imagine that Astarion's chest would tighten at the mere sound of his footsteps?

He's shaking, the light from the Blood of Lathander quivering visibly. He should just kill Cazador now, quietly and covertly. No muss, no fuss. Unfortunately, he's never been the quiet type. ]

Wake up!

[ Astarion grips the mace with both hands, as is necessary to muster up the strength to properly lift it. He swings at Cazador's unconscious form— and the mace slams into the wooden panel where he'd just been lying. Vampiric mist fills the area for only a split second before Cazador materializes again, forced into corporeality by the mace's light. He covers his eyes with the back of his hand, snarling as his skin scorches.

"You little rat," he growls. "You think I couldn't hear you scurrying around in the dark?"

He doesn't so much as acknowledge Iorveth's presence. He may think his spawn inferior in every way, but mortals are even more so. If Astarion is a rat to Cazador, Iorveth is only a gnat, so beneath him as to be unremarkable. "This is how you return to me?" he chastises, gritting his teeth as the daylight sears his skin. "You always did need a firm hand." He extends a hand, then, chanting perurē as he draws lightning down on them. It feels like being cooked, like being on fire; Astarion drops the mace out of shock, the weapon landing on the ground with a cacophony of clinks. ]

Fuck.

[ Do they give awards for self-sabotage? Iorveth hears wake up and thinks, rather ineloquently, oh no－ there goes the element of surprise, if they had it in the first place.

Cazador is... well. He's smaller than Iorveth expected him to be. Slight. Iorveth would expect to see someone of his stature working in politics or finance, not holding extravagant murder parties, wine in hand, with werewolf companions. Still, it remains that the shape of Cazador doesn't shift the balance of their current equation, and that they are ostensibly fucked if they aren't smart about how they act.

Maybe too little too late for that. Magic sears through Iorveth, his presence just collateral damage in the grand scheme of what's unfolding; he doubles over, the hand that he'd stuck in his pack for more vampire-related ammunition slipping, twitching, dropping the pitifully small vial of holy water that breaks, leaving a sad trail of moisture on grooved flooring.

Fuck is the correct sentiment. Iorveth echoes it in his own language, his heart seizing (is Astarion alright) as he drops down on his knees, scrabbling inelegantly for the mace that is rolling, dangerously, close to the edge of the elevated platform. If they lose Lathander's blessing, they lose the whole ordeal.

So. Maybe he is a gnat, grasping at straws by a vampire's foot. Iorveth doesn't care: he'll make sure that Astarion makes it out of here alive, or die trying.

Speaking of Astarion, though. While he reaches with one arm, trying to wind his fingers around the mace before it can be lost to the void, he unhooks his pack from his hip with his other hand and tries to blindly toss the thing to Astarion. Multitasking. ]

－Astarion!

[ Astarion scrambles to catch the pack, helped along by the grace of dexterity being one of his few natural talents. Still aching from the aftershocks of Cazador's magic, he fumbles with the clasp to open it, he glances over at Cazador, who in turn is watching Iorveth reach for their only useful weapon with haughty amusement. He glides across the floor, as if his feet don't even touch the ground, digging a heel into Iorveth's back even as the corona emitted from the mace starts to make his skin sizzle.

"You're keeping a pet," Cazador spits, disgust and disdain in his voice. He cants his head toward Iorveth's eyepatch, tutting in disapproval. "I thought I taught you better than to take in a lame dog."

The clasp pops open, and Astarion plunges his hand inside, searching for anything— ]

Ow! Gods!

[ His hand collides with the hunter's dagger, the enchantment on it burning his undead skin. He snatches his hand back, shaking it out as he sucks in air through his teeth.

"I suppose it's the responsibility of the family patriarch to put it down." Cazador leans all of his weight—not a particularly sizeable amount, but unpleasant nonetheless—into the boot on Iorveth's back. Too arrogant to stop taunting, even with the smell of burnt flesh beginning to permeate the air.

Astarion unearths the small glass vial of holy water next. If there's anything he does have, it's good aim; he flings the ampoule without another thought. Cazador, unfortunately stationary, takes it to the face, the glass breaking into a multitude of shards that cut his nose and cheeks. The singe of holy water causes him to reel back, stepping off of Iorveth to clutch at his face and snap, "You impertinent brat." ]

[ Stepped on, derided, being called a dog― none of these things resonate. It's old hat, the sort of thing he's already endured in worse conditions, nose to mud, eye gouged out. Instead of being overtaken by fury, Iorveth remembers, as he looks up at Cazador's disintegrating face, that Cazador needs Astarion for the ritual; this, alongside the mace, is Iorveth's biggest advantage.

Or, well. It's something. It means that Cazador doesn't immediately decapitate Astarion for the offense, and in the few seconds that Iorveth is afforded while Astarion's tormentor breaks into dramatics, he closes his grip around their glowing weapon and slides it across the slick floor towards Astarion, leaving himself unguarded by its light. ]

Catch it, [ he warns, as he finds himself pinned by a set of glass-red eyes on a smoldering face. There's nothing to read behind Cazador's focus but the furious amusement of a predator, the peeled-back snarl of a creature that knows it could crush Iorveth without giving the act any measure of consideration.

"If only the boy wasn't necessary for my ascension," the vampire hisses. "I would have had him bear witness to your prolonged torture. It might have reminded the willful child to mind what I've taught him."

Needlessly theatrical. Iorveth opens his mouth to argue, but his next breath is wrenched out of him when Cazador crooks his fingers and sends a sheet of Blight down over his entire body; his vision blurs, cast in ghastly necrotic green, overtaken by nausea far worse than he'd felt when he'd jumped over the decaying corpse of that girl. He rolls onto his side, curling into himself, and heaves.

"Recite my rules, boy!" Cazador crows to Astarion, triumphant. "Speak them, one at a time!" ]

Edited 2024-08-20 11:18 (UTC)

[ Stop making me catch things, his mouth is open to say, but it gets strangled in his throat as he watches the sickly arcane energy surround and consume Iorveth, draining his life force with every ticking second. This is exactly why he'd been worried about bringing Iorveth along. Cazador could torture him, kill him, inflict so much suffering that he begs to be turned. It makes Astarion feel sick with rage.

He drops Iorveth's pack on the ground, daggers and spell scrolls rattling around, and picks up the Blood of Lathander with both hands. It's weighty, solid. Fueled by hate—for Cazador, for his stupid rules—he stalks forward and swings at Cazador's back. He's never truly seen Cazador be injured before, not without healing immediately, but the spikes of the mace rip through the fabric of his embellished tunic, bloodying his skin.

Both of them must be surprised by it, because Cazador whirls around, more incensed than Astarion has ever seen him before. His eyes are practically ablaze with indignation, his teeth bared, face reddening with radiant burns. Astarion swings again, the mace colliding with Cazador's torso, leaving a large, bloody tear in his clothing.

Cazador actually cries out in pain, for perhaps the first time in a long time. Astarion can tell it humiliates him, because he reaches into his pockets and unearths a dagger, the very same that was used to carve the infernal symbols on Astarion's back. Sharp edges, with a stake of wood down the center. "Enough with this tantrum," he roars, plunging the dagger into Astarion's shoulder. "If I didn't have use for you, it would be your heart." ]

[ Cazador keeps evening the odds. Iorveth hears, in his post-spell haze, the pained yelp followed by the rage-fueled growl, and registers the attack to Astarion's person once he's back up on his feet.

Not a fatal wound, by any means. But a wound. Iorveth's blood boils; his sword is in his hand before he can even think to temper his anger, his blade aiming for the back of Cazador's neck.

It doesn't quite land. His target pivots on his heels (without turning into mist, Iorveth notes; a further realization, that Cazador can't when Lathander's light is on him), letting go of the hilt of his dagger to attempt a dodge, which also doesn't quite happen. Iorveth's sword cuts across Cazador's shoulder, and Cazador retaliates with a swipe of pointed claws to Iorveth's side.

Chest heaving, clothes tattered and torn, Cazador tries to make another villain speech. Men like these are always full of them. Something about Iorveth being a puny mortal who has no hopes of winning against the immortal Cazador Szarr. He's tired of it, so he lunges forward again and interrupts with another half-dodged attack that cuts right across Cazador's throat, albeit not deep enough to do anything but leave a thin red line on pale skin.

The vampire looks appalled. "An impertinent son keeps impertinent pets," he hisses, turning towards Astarion to see if he can pull the dagger out of his spawn to make further use of it. ]

[ Cazador reaches out to yank the dagger from his flesh, and Astarion's blood soaks the top of his shirt. (How many fucking clothes of his are going to get ruined?) He yelps in pain, and Cazador laughs. The sound echoes in his mind, setting his blood ablaze. Gods, he's so tired of being laughed at.

He swings the mace again, arms burning and shoulder throbbing but too angry to really notice it. He can't say how he does it, or if he's even the one to do it at all, but as the mace swings, the corona of light around its head glows brighter until it explodes in a brilliant ray of light, irradiant and hot. Astarion has to close his eyes at the brightness of it, but the sound Cazador lets out is inhuman, the sound of someone being cooked alive. When he opens his eyes again, the sight is disgusting and wonderful at the same time: Cazador's skin is scalded, charred.

Then, in an instant, Cazador is gone, the dagger dropping to the ground. A bat floats in his place for only a moment before it absconds to the coffin to regenerate. ]

No, no, no. You don't get to hide from me!

[ He slams the mace down on the coffin before summoning up all of his strength to topple it entirely, Cazador's body crumpling on the floor, skin sloughing off. "I command you to stop," he groans, as if Astarion has to follow his commands anymore. ]

What's the matter? You don't feel like laughing anymore?

[ The look in his eyes is faraway as he strikes again, the impact of the mace scraping off bits of scorched face flesh. "Wait," Cazador rasps, changing tack. "I can give you more powerful than you ever—" ]

Isn't this funny?

[ Whatever Cazador says, he isn't listening anymore. A man possessed, he strikes him again and again until it's just a bloody gurgle that Cazador lets out, until he falls to the ground, and then he keeps going. Destroying his smug face, bashing in his ribcage. Blood and viscera spatter him, on his clothes and in his hair. ]

[ A beam of sun in a tomb, poetic if not for what happens in its wake. Sometime between Astarion thwarting Cazador's efforts to retreat and Astarion starting to bash Cazador's head in, Iorveth manages to sheath his sword and tread silently towards the ongoing execution; he's silent throughout, unsure if the chill he feels is a shiver of satisfaction or morbid detachment.

It doesn't matter, he supposes. This is for Astarion, and his peace of mind.

Eventually, the blows peter out. They have to. The mace is heavy, and there's not enough of Cazador left to maim. What's left isn't even a shred of a person, not a vampire or a lord or much of anything: just blood and scorched flesh. The immortal Cazador Szarr, made humble. Two hundred years of torment, reduced to this.

Iorveth lingers. He remembers his own compulsion to scream his head off after his own revenge, and wonders if Astarion's current state of mind echoes it. A pain too deep to quantify; Iorveth can neither say nor do anything with the weight of it hanging over them, so he stays three steps behind Astarion, poised for anything. ]

[ The difference between them is thus: Iorveth felt the urge to scream, and Astarion actually does it. It's a primal, guttural scream that escapes him as he mashes the last bits of Cazador to unrecognizable mush; after that, his tired arms give out and the mace clatters to the ground. Exhausted from exertion and pain, he collapses on the ground next to the red pulp that used to be Cazador, shaking from adrenaline, fear, and hatred.

Killing Cazador was the thing that was supposed to make everything in his life right. He should be elated, but he just feels empty. Astarion has spent two centuries despising him, and now—

Now what?

Awareness of his body comes back slowly. A sharp, pulsing pain in his shoulder. Lightning scorch burns. Arms that'll probably ache for a tenday. Whatever he feels, he realizes, Iorveth must feel it worse. That necrotic energy was potent, far more powerful than whatever miasma emanated from that little girl. ]

Are you all right?

[ Haunting, Iorveth thinks. There have been times when he'd wanted to burrow out of his own skin, the anger and grief felt like too much. A vestige of that returns here, watching Astarion's bent shoulders heave with the effort of persisting.

All that pain, housed in one body. The world is so senseless. It's not enough that a wretched monster is snuffed out of existence, even when it should be. Iorveth moves to crouch next to Astarion, similarly-scorched and bleeding, but by all other accounts, fine. Paler and more pinched than usual, but alive.

It guts him most that Astarion asks him if he's alright. ]

We've both been better.

[ A bitter understatement, but Iorveth isn't in the habit of lying. He reaches to wipe blood from Astarion's face, using his sleeve to scrape off bits of Cazador still lingering on cold skin. ]

But it's done. You saw it through.

[ You, he emphasizes. No great consolation, perhaps, but Iorveth hopes that Astarion can hold to the reality that he earned his own future. ]

[ Iorveth shouldn't be the one wiping blood from his cheek when Cazador drained his life energy, but Astarion is selfish enough to accept it anyway, even as shell-shocked as he is. He stares down at the pile of blood, guts, and flesh that he made, feeling somehow both overwhelmed and entirely distant, like watching himself from outside of his body.

His arms hang limply at his sides, jellylike, useless. Lae'zel was right to doubt his ability to wield a mace. ]

I can't bear to spend another second in this rotted, decaying place.

[ This was supposed to be his eternal home. He'd imagined what it would be like to take it for his own so many times. Now that he's actually here, the palace masterless and yearning to fill the void, he could crawl out of his burnt skin. It feels like being inside the carcass of some long-dead creature. ]

We'll go.

[ A nod, to indicate assent. There's still the problem of the imprisoned spawn and what to do with them, not to mention the other six siblings who will no doubt have realized, to some extent, that their immortal souls have been unbound. But those things can wait at least another day or two, resolved by another trip down to the crypt, with or without Astarion in tow. Iorveth would understand if Astarion never wants to set foot in here again; he can take the signet ring and remember the incantation himself, he thinks.

He wills tired legs to straighten, and offers a hand to help haul Astarion up. They look a frightful mess, stained and tattered and bruised, and the trek back up the stairs to the long hall leading to the elevator seems almost insurmountable at this point, but they'll have to persist.

The worst of it is, predictably, having to pass by the cells. Pale arms stretch from between bars in a silent plea for attention and absolution.

Instinctively, Iorveth says: ] Later. [ But he pauses, giving Astarion space to protest or contest if he wants to. ]

Edited 2024-08-21 03:42 (UTC)

[ These poor creatures are innocent. Or, at least, whatever crimes they might have committed aren't severe enough to be punished like this — no crime is, no matter how sinister. Despite the knowledge that he damned them to this existence, Astarion wants little more than to forget about them. They're walking, talking symbols of his disgrace and humiliation. ]

Come on, [ is all he says, grabbing Iorveth's hand and smearing Cazador's blood on his palm. He pulls him weakly along, eyes downcast, unable to look at the horrors he wrought. Later, Iorveth says, but gods, not right now.

Out in the foyer, the same servant still cleans that same damn spot. Pretending to look busy. He knows what that looks like from experience. She can't help but gasp as they appear in the doorway like a horrific vision, her hands clasping over her mouth to muffle any sound lest she be caught breaking a rule again. He should tell her that Cazador's gone, that she'll never get her wish for eternal life, that she can stop following his rules. ]

Don't worry, [ he says instead, voice dark and dry. ] I didn't tell on you.

[ She drops her feather duster and bolts past them into the palace proper, calling, "Master! Master!" ]

[ A kennelmaster in pieces, a missing chamberlain, a dead master. The Szarr mansion is bereft, dismembered, defunct; good riddance, Iorveth would think, if the platitude didn't ring so hollow. Instead, he watches the servant scramble away, followed by a cloud of feral bats and displaced, stale air. The last of Cazador's empty legacy, infamy that was never built to last. It feels good, in some measure, to leave it all behind.

The sun is slowly relinquishing its position in the sky when they return to the rest of the world, like a giant head cocked in idle curiosity. It stains the city in fading red, and despite the overwhelming relief of feeling clean, unsullied air against his grime-covered skin, Iorveth finds that he's sick of the color for today.

Turning his hand in Astarion's grip, he shifts the point of contact down so that their fingers wind together. He keeps his eye ahead of him, ignoring horrified-looking passersby to beeline not towards Elfsong, but towards the Spearhead. He has neither the patience nor the energy to explain anything to anyone at this point, and most of all, he doesn't want Astarion to have to explain anything to anyone unless he's ready to.

They track blood behind them as they walk; the city can deal with it. When they pass through the front door of the inn, the young human manning the visitor's desk looks like he might refuse service, but shuts up when Iorveth tosses grime-covered gold onto the counter. Housecleaning is going to have a hell of a time. ]

[ It's a good thing Iorveth is able to bring them back to the inn, because Astarion walks the streets in a dreamlike daze. It's almost incomprehensible that none of the people passing them by with concerned looks know what just happened. It had felt like the whole world stopped when they entered the palace, but it had kept going on without them, regardless of what was going on inside that mansion.

He'd expected to return to the Elfsong given the state of their injuries, but it's a relief not to. As beaten and broken as his body feels, it's nothing compared to the anguish of having to answer to the worried, questioning looks of their companions. Hells, he can't even answer to the worried, questioning look of the inn employee, staying uncharacteristically silent all the way up to their room, save for the pained grunts he makes while walking up the stairs.

Once the door closes behind them, he slumps against the wall, smearing a line of wet blood down it. He stares at Iorveth, the only thing he can focus on. ]

Now you know me.

[ The real him. That whole fiasco was more exposing than stripping himself bare. A place filled with his subjugation, his humiliation, his shame. Don't think differently of me, he wants to beg. ]

[ Silence, as Iorveth slowly starts to unload himself of all of his packs (including one with the holy mace that saved their asses, because of course he remembered to pick it up). It takes a moment for him to respond to what Astarion says, his expression set in a grim semi-frown, almost irritated but not quite. ]

Good of you to tell me how I know you.

[ A jab and a chide. Not at all sharp, all things considered: it's not like Iorveth has been at all forthcoming about the details of his own past. Just the bare outlines of it, as opposed to all the blood-soaked indignity that Astarion has had to put on the table for scrutiny. Iorveth understands.

But in the same way that he couldn't bear "are you all right", he can't bear this. His palms find themselves on either side of Astarion's face, bracketing him, keeping him in place. Iorveth's one eye is tired, but clear. ]

I see you as I've always seen you.

Did you think more clarity would make me care less?

[ Stupid, if that's the case. Foolish, shortsighted vampire. Iorveth is devastatingly fond of him. ]

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