[ Speaking of butting heads. Iorveth almost looks like he'll bite back with a you're the one that asked, but the rest of Astarion's statement tempers it.
Instead of being offended, he just laughs again. Aware that it's a legitimate concern, yes, but the way the concern is framed tickles something in his gut. ]
If any of my people seriously believe that I can be enthralled, [ again, a real thing that vampires can really do, but. ] They wouldn't know me very well at all.
[ What kind of stupid vampire is going to choose to enthrall a weird, unpleasant wood elf terrorist anyway??? For what gain??? Iorveth can't imagine it, so he continues to chuckle about it. How absurd. ]
Mm. I'll silence the detractors. This wouldn't be the first time I've done something that many consider completely mad.
[ Another, even bigger pout; it is a very legitimate concern, and Iorveth should be taking it seriously. If even he, who hardly thinks past the present moment, has it on his mind, it's worth considering. ]
Mm, [ he echoes grumpily. ] I'm sure.
[ Iorveth is mad, so he has no doubts that this won't be the first time his people question him. He worries, though, that the Aen Seidhe will help him see the light. Turn him against Astarion, as it were. They'll tell him what a stupid idea it is to get involved with a vampire, and because they're the only people in the world Iorveth seems to give a damn about, he'll listen.
Perhaps he can hide his true nature. Then they'll only have his charming personality to go on, and they'll have to like him.
He shifts, arms coming down possessively around Iorveth's sides, head resting against his shoulder. ]
[ The very real problem of whether or not some people might not want Astarion around has a very real solution to Iorveth, which is relayed with blunt simplicity: ]
Astarion. [ His lips rest on soft curls, somewhere in the vicinity of the crown of Astarion's head. ] No one will dare touch you, under my watch.
[ A touch of possessiveness of his own. The sort of iron-clad, bared-teeth protectiveness that's kept Iorveth going for the past century; Iorveth draws on it now, a familiar and comfortable fire in his chest that he throws kindling onto. His grip around Astarion's waist tightens just a fraction. ]
Some may be wary. Some may protest. But I'll not let any of them treat you poorly.
[ He'd rather be able to protect himself, and perhaps he really could — if not for the fact that stabbing anyone who dares question his place might upset Iorveth. Even if it was only a warning stab! So, he resigns himself to relying on Iorveth's protection, even if he'd rather be the one protecting Iorveth.
Even still, it's sweet. The resolute tone of his voice makes Astarion feel as warm inside as he now does outside, after all of this time spent pressed against Iorveth's body heat. He strokes up and down the side of Iorveth's ribcage with light fingers, idle. ]
My hero, [ he croons, a faint lopsided grin tugging at one corner of his lips. ] You really know how to make a vampire feel like a princess.
[ He presses that lopsided grin to Iorveth's shoulder, soft and gentle and entirely chaste. ]
Ugh. I suppose Lae'zel will be wondering where we got off to with that mace.
[ Regarding treating Astarion like a so-called princess. If push comes to shove, Iorveth is sure that Astarion is resourceful enough to fend for himself without being cloistered like a helpless maiden locked in a tower, but it's the principle of the thing. If Iorveth is going to make Astarion trudge halfway across the continent alongside him, he might as well make sure that it's at least worth some of the trouble.
Mirroring the touch to his torso, Iorveth runs his fingers along Astarion's spine over the loose robe, tracing it up and down. ]
It's likely that she has some idea where we may have gone, though hasn't believed us stupid enough to actually go by ourselves.
[ Which, like. Fair. ]
Do you feel strong enough to face her wrath?
[ The alone time is nice, but Iorveth is also aware that someone tangentially related to Cazador knows that the two of them are here; how else would he have received that note? Maybe a sibling will show up in the night, and Astarion might not prefer to speak to them yet. ]
[ He plans to blame Iorveth for most of it, anyway. One can adore someone and still throw them to the wolves when necessary. Besides, Lae'zel's bark is bigger than her bite. Iorveth will be fine. Probably. (It is, he supposes, making sense now why Iorveth expects them to argue.)
Part of him thinks it would be far preferable to lie here on Iorveth and nap all day, but they'll only be in more trouble the longer they disappear for. There are pressing matters to be dealt with, unfortunately. It takes every ounce of willpower in him to pull himself up and swing his legs off of the side of the bed. There's an instant coldness where Iorveth's body heat used to be.
Looking back: ] Do you plan to return back flaunting that lovely torso for all to see? [ He smirks. ] Only idle curiosity. I have no complaints, of course.
[ Back to reality, and more bloody trials to follow the one they've just undergone. It's a shame that the most complicated part of Iorveth's life moving forward can't be figuring out how to etch a clean circle using needle and thread, but some things are simply impossible.
He can't complain. Some part of him is, in fact, still reeling at the memory of Astarion agreeing to being with him. ]
Mm. The others haven't earned it.
[ Dryly, but without bitterness. Iorveth will never fancy himself very pretty to look at, but he'll accept Astarion's sweet delusions for free. He gets up to find his new shirt amidst the wreckage of their room, then picks up the discarded headscarf on the floor to re-situate it over his missing eye. They don't have a lot of inventory to pack up: just the half-empty bag of anti-vampire items, their sewing kit and clothes. Iorveth finishes the rest of the food that he was given that morning, and shoves the evidence of his embroidery practice into the basket for safekeeping.
One quick survey of the room, before they leave. Housekeeping is going to have a bad time with the bloodstains and the mangled sheets (they should probably burn them alongside the discarded old clothes); Iorveth leaves an extra piece of gold along the windowsill for the unfortunate employee's trouble. ]
[ For his part, Astarion only cinches his robe with its accompanying belt and slips some shoes on. Lazy as always.
The poor employee at the front remembers their bloodied return last night, and he gives them a wary look as they exit. Astarion, who was far too dazed to remember much about coming back looking like he'd, well, murdered a man, shoots him a stink eye in return. Not wanting to get on the bad side of two potential serial killers, the man averts his gaze. ]
Some people have no manners, [ he hisses under his breath as they exit, blissfully unaware of his hypocrisy.
The sun shines warmly down on them as they make their way onto the street. People walk down the cobblestoned paths, dipping in and out of shops for their midday meals. Astarion tilts his head, admiring Iorveth's sharp features lit in the soft daylight. How frightening, to have something worth losing. Wonderful, too, which he's finding makes it worth all of the fear.
He slides his hand into Iorveth's as they walk, a little hesitant and bashful to be doing something so innocent. The novelty of being liked will wear off someday, he's sure, but for now it's electrifying just to hold his hand. ]
[ The careful way Astarion twines their hands together makes Iorveth's heart clench with an immediacy that he can't describe in words. It's such a small thing, unnoticed by the throngs of city-dwellers who have far more to care about than two elves walking hand-in-hand; still, to Iorveth, the feeling of Astarion's palm slowly warming against his own is sacrosanct.
He glances down to where they're twined. Happiness tugs at the corner of his mouth, pulling his austere features into a smile that lasts, physically, for only a moment. Spiritually, it lingers, even when they finally reach Elfsong and make their way up to their party's base of operations: there's no move to untangle himself from Astarion after he opens the door and steps into the radius of their companions' scrutiny, secure in the knowledge that he really doesn't give a shit what the others may say about them.
The others, incidentally, happen to be just Wyll and Gale. Holding the fort for Iorveth and Astarion's potential return while the women go and get actual things done, presumably― Wyll leaps onto his feet from where he'd been cleaning his weapons on one of the room's many well-cushioned armchairs, and approaches them with the sort of open-armed earnestness that'd felt unbearable in the early days of their journey.
"Hells, you're finally back, the both of you! After all the ducking and hiding you two have been doing the past few days, we'd thought―"
Wyll's mismatched eyes flit down, obviously registering the very improbable reality of Astarion and Iorveth holding hands, but also being raised too right to call attention to it in a way that would be uncouth. He clears his throat, and continues.
"―Well, whatever we thought didn't come to bear, and for that I'm grateful." Sincerely, as Wyll is about most things. After a beat, he appends:
"You look... comfortable, Astarion." Taking note of the loungewear, which he's fairly certain Astarion didn't leave in. Huh. ]
[ Wyll, in his infinite politeness, tips his head and answers, "Stylish as always." Turning to Iorveth, he adds, "You as well, of course." Less stylish than Astarion, surely, but he's fairly sure the compliment is only because golden boy Wyll can't bear the thought of being rude. It's almost endearing.
"But," he continues, leaning in and lowering his voice a bit as if that'll somehow stop Gale from overhearing. "I have to ask. Where have you two been? The whole group has been worried sick."
Astarion might have said he was feeling strong enough to face Lae'zel, but he's not ready for the entire camp to know what he's been up to. Wyll will certainly have questions, and gods, he'll probably ask how Astarion is holding up. Or worse, he'll tell him he's proud of him. Then Karlach will find out, and she's going to want to hug him about it. He can't bear all of that for at least another day. ]
Oh, you know. Out. About, even.
[ Wyll looks skeptical of this lie.
Exasperated: ] —Surely two good-looking elves are entitled to some alone time. Mm, by the way, I'd suggest you all refrain from looking past Iorveth's curtains for the foreseeable future unless you'd like to get an eyeful.
[ Iorveth watches as Wyll's expression dances neatly from one disparate sentiment to another: one brow hiked in skepticism, joined by the second in surprise, then both furrowed in vaguely amused curiosity. Obviously, he looks like he wants to press the point, but is interrupted by Gale, who pops his head out from beyond his curtained bed with his own interjection.
"At the risk of sounding uncouth, your actions over the past few days have been telegraphing more "secret mission" than "lovers' retreat"."
A fair observation, but one that comes from a human wizard, so Iorveth has very little respect for it by default. He hikes his chin up at Gale's scrutiny, nothing of the softness he's been showing Astarion apparent in the now-proud slant of his posture. ]
You think yourself the authority on how lovers act, do you.
[ To the tune of "you got dumped by a Goddess for acting like a moron, don't even talk to me." Very mean. Gale frowns, and Wyll reacts, appropriately, with a full-bodied yikes.
"Let's not argue the point any further," is the diplomatic middle ground that Wyll decides to keep. "We're here to be confided in when you feel it's time to confide in us. I hope you both know that." ]
Oh, don't worry, Wyll. We'll be having a slumber party and gabbing all night before long.
[ Wyll clearly picks up on the heavy sarcasm, but he doesn't push it, beyond an amused shake of the head. In all honesty, he's glad for Wyll's overture, even if it's a bit touchy-feely for his tastes. The time will come soon enough that he'll be able to speak of what happened at Cazador's manse, and gods, maybe he'll even want to.
It's sweet, is the point. Stupid, nice warlock, making him feel like he has friends. ]
Ah. By the by— I don't suppose either one of you has a healing potion or two to spare.
[ Gale narrows his eyes, an annoyingly smug smile crawling across his face. "Oh-ho," he crows, irritatingly. "Come now, after a lovers' retreat?"
Astarion crosses his arms. ]
If you must know, our lovemaking was terribly enthusiastic. Poor Iorveth is still recovering.
[ Gale is really going for gold in the "make Iorveth bristle" Olympics, an event that no one asked to join but everyone is nevertheless participating in－ Iorveth even lets go of Astarion to see if he can't wipe the grin off of Gale's face through common intimidation, but finds himself derailed by the sudden accusation that he's the one that needs recovering after the events of the past two days.
Ugh. He has half a mind to poke the still-healing wound on Astarion's shoulder to prove a point, but he won't. Turns out that he actually shares Wyll's sentiment about giving Astarion space and time until he's ready to talk about things, how irritating.
Wrinkling his nose, obviously vexed but entertaining the farce: ] My vampire has an unruly appetite.
[ He pulls down his collar, where the fang-shaped puncture wounds still burn red and warm against his neck from their recent fooling around. That shuts Gale up nicely and makes Wyll clear his throat again, promising to find them something as he turns and jogs back towards the direction of his supplies.
Iorveth snorts, and glances sideways at Astarion. ]
Leave the mace on Lae'zel's bed. [ Handing him their bag still half-full of anti-vampire items, where the Blood of Lathander is still gently gleaming. ]
[ When will Iorveth ever learn to ask nicely? Probably never, but that won't stop Astarion from cheekily correcting him. He saunters over to Lae'zel's bed, unearthing the mace from Iorveth's pack. Its gleam is slightly dulled by spots of dried blood along its spikes.
"Is that—?" Gale starts, then thinks better of continuing to bother Astarion while he's holding a mace. A wise choice.
What Gale was referring to, of course, was the bit of viscera hanging precariously off one of the spikes. Astarion couldn't begin to say what body part it used to be. He looks down, flicking the little piece of Cazador onto the floor. ]
Well spotted, Gale. It is a mace, [ he says, deliberately obtuse, before setting the mace aside and tossing the rest of the pack on the floor by Iorveth's things. ]
[ On second thought, maybe they should have left the mace next to Lae'zel's bed instead of staining her pillowcase with it, but what's done is done. Iorveth takes the potion when it's offered to him by a returning Wyll, and offhandedly passes the round bottle to Astarion without giving it a second glance; a silent you need it more, leaving little room for debate.
With that, he returns to his sequestered spot in their collective room, and marvels at how different things are from when he last slept on this particular mattress. Henselt seems a world and a half away, as does anything pre-Cazador－ it's always humbling how certain spiritually-upending changes aren't readily observable in one's physical surroundings.
Iorveth unburdens himself of his belongings, and rolls his shoulders. It feels strange, being here with the others. They'll have to move on to all the other bullshit that they still have yet to solve, but Iorveth's skull still feels packed, full with thoughts of Astarion, lingering concerns mixed with future plans. Having to think about anything else is exhausting; every time he tells himself to consider the Gortash problem again, his brain does a quick heel-face turn.
A sigh, and he beckons Astarion back to him. At this point, Gale and Wyll look like they still only half-believe that Iorveth and Astarion are actually intimate with each other (the bloody mace is clear evidence that they weren't actually just canoodling around with each other), but Iorveth truly cannot be assed to care about the optics at this point. ]
I intend to go tell Ciaran to call off his investigations, [ Iorveth explains, if Astarion obliges him with his presence. ] If you want to stay and rest, stay and rest.
[ Astarion's fingers tap against the bottle, surprisingly hesitant to gobble the potion down and leave Iorveth without. It won't heal the scars, physical or emotional, but he eventually pockets it anyway. His muscles do ache something fierce. Perhaps the imaginary Shadowheart they were speaking of had a point about not getting frisky while injured. ]
—I'm not sure he appreciates my charm.
[ Translation: he doesn't like me. Under these circumstances, he's liable to say something that will only dig him deeper into the hole with Ciaran. ]
You go. I'll stay.
[ Iorveth could probably use a break, anyway. He wasn't exaggerating; he is a lot. ]
I've lots of thoughts to occupy my time with. [ And two unfortunate victims to harass. ]
[ "Ciaran will come around", Iorveth doesn't say, because he doesn't speak for his brother-in-arms, who is just as stubborn as Iorveth is. Instead, Iorveth places a palm on Astarion's forehead, as if he can feel the thoughts building like stormclouds just under his hand, dark and roiling. ]
Bask in the others' attention for a while. [ Sliding his touch down to Astarion's cheek, letting it linger there to feel for tension along his temple, his jaw. Eventually, Iorveth relents. His hand strays back to his own side. ] Some voices aside from mine will do you good.
[ Wyll is, at the end of the day, a kind person; so is Gale, even if Iorveth wants to humble him nine times out of ten. If Astarion changes his mind at any point about staying with him and decides to linger in Baldur's Gate with Wyll or travel to Waterdeep with Gale, Iorveth would be content in the knowledge that Astarion is in good hands.
So. One last bump of forehead to forehead, and Iorveth slips out to do his errands. The entire time, he thinks he feels a pair of blood-red eyes watching him from the shadows, the presence looming closer as the sun starts to lean.
Meanwhile, Wyll approaches Astarion with a vintage Talis deck and a bottle of red: "I thought you could teach me some sleight of hand", he beams, and invites Gale over for a game or two. ]
[ He doesn't bask, exactly, but he does manage to help Wyll cheat Gale out of his coin — which Wyll then promptly returns, because it wasn't an honorable defeat. After, he crawls into Iorveth's bed to rest, which he supposes is also his bed now, too. The sheets smell like Iorveth, though, the scent familiar and calming as he rolls the events of the past few days over in his mind. Wonderful, some of it. Awful, some more of it. He thinks of the spawn still trapped underneath the palace, their faces gaunt and their eyes hungry, and feels a little sick.
After some time, Lae'zel and Shadowheart roll back in. He can tell by the sound of their footsteps, one light and the other heavy with armored boots, but also because Lae'zel snorts with disdain and says, "So the elves have returned — chk, and so has much of their foe."
"I would have thought blood and innards were a required component of gith decor," Shadowheart replies lightly.
"The blood and innards of one's own kill is a symbol of victory," Lae'zel concedes.
Astarion pulls the pillow over his head, unwilling to face Lae'zel's questioning on his own. He can't very well throw Iorveth to the wolves if he isn't even here. ]
[ Iorveth's talk with Ciaran ends the way Iorveth expected: with apprehension, but acceptance. A reminder that while Ciaran has no reason to enjoy Astarion's company yet, he won't deny Iorveth the things that make him happy.
He mulls over that during his walk back to Elfsong. Happy. Something he'd always wanted for his clan, but not necessarily for himself. It unnerves him, somewhat― has he earned this? Is he deserving?
He's frowning by the time he returns to their room, contemplation drawing sharp lines over his austere features. "Well, someone looks cranky," Shadowheart notes when Iorveth closes the door behind him, looking up from her casual perch next to Lae'zel with a coquettish grin.
Iorveth folds his arms, defensive. ]
Have you tended to Astarion yet? [ Is a question that earns him a laugh-snort, the laugh from Shadowheart and the snort from Lae'zel: "he's been hiding", they say in unison.
Hm. Iorveth passes them by and strides over to his bed, spotting the lump of silver hidden under pillows and the dark fabric of his robe. ]
[ Astarion peeks out from behind the pillow, then lowers it entirely, hugging it against his chest. ]
All part of the 'party rogue' job description. Along with 'devilishly handsome' and 'lovable scoundrel'.
[ At least Lae'zel made no attempt to question him about their whereabouts the last few days while he was under the sheets. As ruthlessly logical as she is, he's sure she decided it wasn't worth the trouble and that she'd just harangue Iorveth when the time came. Or, less likely but still technically possible, she decided that they deserve their privacy.
He can still see the frown lines etched into Iorveth's face. Sitting up, he scoots back toward the headboard, brow furrowed. ]
How did it go with your brother-in-arms?
[ Did you talk about me? he holds back from saying. ]
[ Iorveth remains standing, leaned against the wooden sidepost of their now-shared bed with his head tipped, hair falling lightly over his face. ]
Well. [ He says, cryptically. A non-answer to indicate that it's a placeholder for a better one, one that he's stitching together in the moment; he takes in Astarion's face in the meantime, traces the cut of his jaw and the straight bridge of his nose with his eye as he thinks.
Finally, after a beat: ] He asked me if I truly cared for you. I said yes. [ They spoke about other things, too― mostly politics, and how Iorveth intends to play his role, and what the others will expect from him― but he expects that Astarion wouldn't care about them. ] He also asked me if I truly believed that you have feelings for me. Whether you were capable of them.
[ Another pause, followed by a hum. ] I said yes to this, also. ...He seemed satisfied by the answer, if reluctant to accept it.
[ How rude. To doubt Astarion is capable of feeling! He glowers at that, irritated, although it softens to only a pout when Iorveth adds that he answered 'yes'. It soothes him slightly to know that Iorveth doesn't doubt his affections. At least, he hopes he doesn't. ]
Of course I do.
[ He's been more vulnerable with Iorveth than he's ever been with another soul. Surely that proves his sincerity. Still, he can't help but feel bothered by Ciaran's apprehension, so he adds, teasing, ] Your heart is the greatest treasure I've stolen.
[ There's a tiny narcissistic flair to his words, as if he's proud of himself for having stolen something rare and precious. He pauses, then, eyes roving over Iorveth's face. ]
Far be it from me to ascribe any meaning to your scowls [ —because they're so incredibly common— ] but you weren't wearing the face of a man who just had something go well.
[ He softens, when Astarion smiles. Iorveth can feel that tension-wound coil he'd kept close to his chest loosen again, and it frightens him, somewhat, that it does; that he's found someone that's capable of unstringing the knot he'd made around his heart.
The bed creaks under his weight when he sits on it. He reminds himself of the first night he'd asked Astarion to sleep next to him, how he'd felt like he'd scratch himself raw if he didn't have someone close by. There's a little bit of that now, as he opens his mouth to speak. ]
Do you want to hear a story?
[ It's as much of a warning as Iorveth can give. Just like "do you want to hear something funny", when Iorveth actually bothers asking someone if they want to, it's because he knows he has nothing very pleasant to say. ]
[ Iorveth's stories, he's coming to learn, are rarely something good. The fact that he asks spurs Astarion to put the pillow to the side, swinging his legs over the side of the bed so they can sit side-by-side. He wants just to ask if everything is all right and make Iorveth tell it to him plainly, yes or no, but...
Well, emotions can be tricky. He knows that better than anyone. If this is how Iorveth wants to talk about it, then it's how they'll have to talk about it. He even swallows the urge to be flippant about it and ask Iorveth to tell it with hand puppets instead. (And Ciaran questioned if Astarion had feelings for him! The sacrifices he makes.)
He can't quite say he wants to hear the story—he needs to know more than wants to know—so he replies, ] Tell me.
[ It's the sort of story that he doesn't want to tell, and the sort of story no one wants to hear. Iorveth sits back on his hands, grappling with where to start, until he finally just decides to. ]
I was chained by humans alongside thirty-two of my comrades. [ A weird place to start, considering they were just talking about Ciaran. But Iorveth continues anyway, raising one hand as if to say "there's a point I want to make", resting it back on the mattress after he lets it hover. ] Sometimes I think about how I survived our imprisonment when all but one other died― and I come to the same conclusion. I was simply the loudest.
[ He idly rubs one of his wrists with his palm. ]
I screamed myself hoarse, those few weeks. I cursed, I spit, I pleaded. I suppose it amused the humans to hear me beg; not for myself, but for the others. They delighted in watching me want something they wouldn't give, and for that, they kept me alive.
[ Funny. Iorveth tips his head up, and laughs soundlessly and humorlessly under his breath. ]
I survived the humans and doomed the others, all for my loudness. My wanting. [ His tone turns slightly bitter, though he thinks to clamp back on it, his thumb digging into the hard jut of his wrist. ] Which brings me to Ciaran.
He spoke to me of my happiness today, and I― [ Hm, he hums. ] ―I wondered, I suppose. I'd spent so long after becoming free again becoming louder but wanting less.
I suppose I wondered if I deserve you. [ Context, conclusion. A longwinded way to say that he's killed so many people for caring about them, and that he, perhaps, is the least entitled person on this world to continue making that stupid mistake. ]
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Instead of being offended, he just laughs again. Aware that it's a legitimate concern, yes, but the way the concern is framed tickles something in his gut. ]
If any of my people seriously believe that I can be enthralled, [ again, a real thing that vampires can really do, but. ] They wouldn't know me very well at all.
[ What kind of stupid vampire is going to choose to enthrall a weird, unpleasant wood elf terrorist anyway??? For what gain??? Iorveth can't imagine it, so he continues to chuckle about it. How absurd. ]
Mm. I'll silence the detractors. This wouldn't be the first time I've done something that many consider completely mad.
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Mm, [ he echoes grumpily. ] I'm sure.
[ Iorveth is mad, so he has no doubts that this won't be the first time his people question him. He worries, though, that the Aen Seidhe will help him see the light. Turn him against Astarion, as it were. They'll tell him what a stupid idea it is to get involved with a vampire, and because they're the only people in the world Iorveth seems to give a damn about, he'll listen.
Perhaps he can hide his true nature. Then they'll only have his charming personality to go on, and they'll have to like him.
He shifts, arms coming down possessively around Iorveth's sides, head resting against his shoulder. ]
That's all far away, of course.
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Astarion. [ His lips rest on soft curls, somewhere in the vicinity of the crown of Astarion's head. ] No one will dare touch you, under my watch.
[ A touch of possessiveness of his own. The sort of iron-clad, bared-teeth protectiveness that's kept Iorveth going for the past century; Iorveth draws on it now, a familiar and comfortable fire in his chest that he throws kindling onto. His grip around Astarion's waist tightens just a fraction. ]
Some may be wary. Some may protest. But I'll not let any of them treat you poorly.
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Even still, it's sweet. The resolute tone of his voice makes Astarion feel as warm inside as he now does outside, after all of this time spent pressed against Iorveth's body heat. He strokes up and down the side of Iorveth's ribcage with light fingers, idle. ]
My hero, [ he croons, a faint lopsided grin tugging at one corner of his lips. ] You really know how to make a vampire feel like a princess.
[ He presses that lopsided grin to Iorveth's shoulder, soft and gentle and entirely chaste. ]
Ugh. I suppose Lae'zel will be wondering where we got off to with that mace.
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[ Regarding treating Astarion like a so-called princess. If push comes to shove, Iorveth is sure that Astarion is resourceful enough to fend for himself without being cloistered like a helpless maiden locked in a tower, but it's the principle of the thing. If Iorveth is going to make Astarion trudge halfway across the continent alongside him, he might as well make sure that it's at least worth some of the trouble.
Mirroring the touch to his torso, Iorveth runs his fingers along Astarion's spine over the loose robe, tracing it up and down. ]
It's likely that she has some idea where we may have gone, though hasn't believed us stupid enough to actually go by ourselves.
[ Which, like. Fair. ]
Do you feel strong enough to face her wrath?
[ The alone time is nice, but Iorveth is also aware that someone tangentially related to Cazador knows that the two of them are here; how else would he have received that note? Maybe a sibling will show up in the night, and Astarion might not prefer to speak to them yet. ]
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With you by my side, how could I not?
[ He plans to blame Iorveth for most of it, anyway. One can adore someone and still throw them to the wolves when necessary. Besides, Lae'zel's bark is bigger than her bite. Iorveth will be fine. Probably. (It is, he supposes, making sense now why Iorveth expects them to argue.)
Part of him thinks it would be far preferable to lie here on Iorveth and nap all day, but they'll only be in more trouble the longer they disappear for. There are pressing matters to be dealt with, unfortunately. It takes every ounce of willpower in him to pull himself up and swing his legs off of the side of the bed. There's an instant coldness where Iorveth's body heat used to be.
Looking back: ] Do you plan to return back flaunting that lovely torso for all to see? [ He smirks. ] Only idle curiosity. I have no complaints, of course.
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He can't complain. Some part of him is, in fact, still reeling at the memory of Astarion agreeing to being with him. ]
Mm. The others haven't earned it.
[ Dryly, but without bitterness. Iorveth will never fancy himself very pretty to look at, but he'll accept Astarion's sweet delusions for free. He gets up to find his new shirt amidst the wreckage of their room, then picks up the discarded headscarf on the floor to re-situate it over his missing eye. They don't have a lot of inventory to pack up: just the half-empty bag of anti-vampire items, their sewing kit and clothes. Iorveth finishes the rest of the food that he was given that morning, and shoves the evidence of his embroidery practice into the basket for safekeeping.
One quick survey of the room, before they leave. Housekeeping is going to have a bad time with the bloodstains and the mangled sheets (they should probably burn them alongside the discarded old clothes); Iorveth leaves an extra piece of gold along the windowsill for the unfortunate employee's trouble. ]
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The poor employee at the front remembers their bloodied return last night, and he gives them a wary look as they exit. Astarion, who was far too dazed to remember much about coming back looking like he'd, well, murdered a man, shoots him a stink eye in return. Not wanting to get on the bad side of two potential serial killers, the man averts his gaze. ]
Some people have no manners, [ he hisses under his breath as they exit, blissfully unaware of his hypocrisy.
The sun shines warmly down on them as they make their way onto the street. People walk down the cobblestoned paths, dipping in and out of shops for their midday meals. Astarion tilts his head, admiring Iorveth's sharp features lit in the soft daylight. How frightening, to have something worth losing. Wonderful, too, which he's finding makes it worth all of the fear.
He slides his hand into Iorveth's as they walk, a little hesitant and bashful to be doing something so innocent. The novelty of being liked will wear off someday, he's sure, but for now it's electrifying just to hold his hand. ]
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He glances down to where they're twined. Happiness tugs at the corner of his mouth, pulling his austere features into a smile that lasts, physically, for only a moment. Spiritually, it lingers, even when they finally reach Elfsong and make their way up to their party's base of operations: there's no move to untangle himself from Astarion after he opens the door and steps into the radius of their companions' scrutiny, secure in the knowledge that he really doesn't give a shit what the others may say about them.
The others, incidentally, happen to be just Wyll and Gale. Holding the fort for Iorveth and Astarion's potential return while the women go and get actual things done, presumably― Wyll leaps onto his feet from where he'd been cleaning his weapons on one of the room's many well-cushioned armchairs, and approaches them with the sort of open-armed earnestness that'd felt unbearable in the early days of their journey.
"Hells, you're finally back, the both of you! After all the ducking and hiding you two have been doing the past few days, we'd thought―"
Wyll's mismatched eyes flit down, obviously registering the very improbable reality of Astarion and Iorveth holding hands, but also being raised too right to call attention to it in a way that would be uncouth. He clears his throat, and continues.
"―Well, whatever we thought didn't come to bear, and for that I'm grateful." Sincerely, as Wyll is about most things. After a beat, he appends:
"You look... comfortable, Astarion." Taking note of the loungewear, which he's fairly certain Astarion didn't leave in. Huh. ]
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[ Wyll, in his infinite politeness, tips his head and answers, "Stylish as always." Turning to Iorveth, he adds, "You as well, of course." Less stylish than Astarion, surely, but he's fairly sure the compliment is only because golden boy Wyll can't bear the thought of being rude. It's almost endearing.
"But," he continues, leaning in and lowering his voice a bit as if that'll somehow stop Gale from overhearing. "I have to ask. Where have you two been? The whole group has been worried sick."
Astarion might have said he was feeling strong enough to face Lae'zel, but he's not ready for the entire camp to know what he's been up to. Wyll will certainly have questions, and gods, he'll probably ask how Astarion is holding up. Or worse, he'll tell him he's proud of him. Then Karlach will find out, and she's going to want to hug him about it. He can't bear all of that for at least another day. ]
Oh, you know. Out. About, even.
[ Wyll looks skeptical of this lie.
Exasperated: ] —Surely two good-looking elves are entitled to some alone time. Mm, by the way, I'd suggest you all refrain from looking past Iorveth's curtains for the foreseeable future unless you'd like to get an eyeful.
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"At the risk of sounding uncouth, your actions over the past few days have been telegraphing more "secret mission" than "lovers' retreat"."
A fair observation, but one that comes from a human wizard, so Iorveth has very little respect for it by default. He hikes his chin up at Gale's scrutiny, nothing of the softness he's been showing Astarion apparent in the now-proud slant of his posture. ]
You think yourself the authority on how lovers act, do you.
[ To the tune of "you got dumped by a Goddess for acting like a moron, don't even talk to me." Very mean. Gale frowns, and Wyll reacts, appropriately, with a full-bodied yikes.
"Let's not argue the point any further," is the diplomatic middle ground that Wyll decides to keep. "We're here to be confided in when you feel it's time to confide in us. I hope you both know that." ]
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[ Wyll clearly picks up on the heavy sarcasm, but he doesn't push it, beyond an amused shake of the head. In all honesty, he's glad for Wyll's overture, even if it's a bit touchy-feely for his tastes. The time will come soon enough that he'll be able to speak of what happened at Cazador's manse, and gods, maybe he'll even want to.
It's sweet, is the point. Stupid, nice warlock, making him feel like he has friends. ]
Ah. By the by— I don't suppose either one of you has a healing potion or two to spare.
[ Gale narrows his eyes, an annoyingly smug smile crawling across his face. "Oh-ho," he crows, irritatingly. "Come now, after a lovers' retreat?"
Astarion crosses his arms. ]
If you must know, our lovemaking was terribly enthusiastic. Poor Iorveth is still recovering.
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Ugh. He has half a mind to poke the still-healing wound on Astarion's shoulder to prove a point, but he won't. Turns out that he actually shares Wyll's sentiment about giving Astarion space and time until he's ready to talk about things, how irritating.
Wrinkling his nose, obviously vexed but entertaining the farce: ] My vampire has an unruly appetite.
[ He pulls down his collar, where the fang-shaped puncture wounds still burn red and warm against his neck from their recent fooling around. That shuts Gale up nicely and makes Wyll clear his throat again, promising to find them something as he turns and jogs back towards the direction of his supplies.
Iorveth snorts, and glances sideways at Astarion. ]
Leave the mace on Lae'zel's bed. [ Handing him their bag still half-full of anti-vampire items, where the Blood of Lathander is still gently gleaming. ]
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[ When will Iorveth ever learn to ask nicely? Probably never, but that won't stop Astarion from cheekily correcting him. He saunters over to Lae'zel's bed, unearthing the mace from Iorveth's pack. Its gleam is slightly dulled by spots of dried blood along its spikes.
"Is that—?" Gale starts, then thinks better of continuing to bother Astarion while he's holding a mace. A wise choice.
What Gale was referring to, of course, was the bit of viscera hanging precariously off one of the spikes. Astarion couldn't begin to say what body part it used to be. He looks down, flicking the little piece of Cazador onto the floor. ]
Well spotted, Gale. It is a mace, [ he says, deliberately obtuse, before setting the mace aside and tossing the rest of the pack on the floor by Iorveth's things. ]
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With that, he returns to his sequestered spot in their collective room, and marvels at how different things are from when he last slept on this particular mattress. Henselt seems a world and a half away, as does anything pre-Cazador－ it's always humbling how certain spiritually-upending changes aren't readily observable in one's physical surroundings.
Iorveth unburdens himself of his belongings, and rolls his shoulders. It feels strange, being here with the others. They'll have to move on to all the other bullshit that they still have yet to solve, but Iorveth's skull still feels packed, full with thoughts of Astarion, lingering concerns mixed with future plans. Having to think about anything else is exhausting; every time he tells himself to consider the Gortash problem again, his brain does a quick heel-face turn.
A sigh, and he beckons Astarion back to him. At this point, Gale and Wyll look like they still only half-believe that Iorveth and Astarion are actually intimate with each other (the bloody mace is clear evidence that they weren't actually just canoodling around with each other), but Iorveth truly cannot be assed to care about the optics at this point. ]
I intend to go tell Ciaran to call off his investigations, [ Iorveth explains, if Astarion obliges him with his presence. ] If you want to stay and rest, stay and rest.
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—I'm not sure he appreciates my charm.
[ Translation: he doesn't like me. Under these circumstances, he's liable to say something that will only dig him deeper into the hole with Ciaran. ]
You go. I'll stay.
[ Iorveth could probably use a break, anyway. He wasn't exaggerating; he is a lot. ]
I've lots of thoughts to occupy my time with. [ And two unfortunate victims to harass. ]
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Bask in the others' attention for a while. [ Sliding his touch down to Astarion's cheek, letting it linger there to feel for tension along his temple, his jaw. Eventually, Iorveth relents. His hand strays back to his own side. ] Some voices aside from mine will do you good.
[ Wyll is, at the end of the day, a kind person; so is Gale, even if Iorveth wants to humble him nine times out of ten. If Astarion changes his mind at any point about staying with him and decides to linger in Baldur's Gate with Wyll or travel to Waterdeep with Gale, Iorveth would be content in the knowledge that Astarion is in good hands.
So. One last bump of forehead to forehead, and Iorveth slips out to do his errands. The entire time, he thinks he feels a pair of blood-red eyes watching him from the shadows, the presence looming closer as the sun starts to lean.
Meanwhile, Wyll approaches Astarion with a vintage Talis deck and a bottle of red: "I thought you could teach me some sleight of hand", he beams, and invites Gale over for a game or two. ]
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After some time, Lae'zel and Shadowheart roll back in. He can tell by the sound of their footsteps, one light and the other heavy with armored boots, but also because Lae'zel snorts with disdain and says, "So the elves have returned — chk, and so has much of their foe."
"I would have thought blood and innards were a required component of gith decor," Shadowheart replies lightly.
"The blood and innards of one's own kill is a symbol of victory," Lae'zel concedes.
Astarion pulls the pillow over his head, unwilling to face Lae'zel's questioning on his own. He can't very well throw Iorveth to the wolves if he isn't even here. ]
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He mulls over that during his walk back to Elfsong. Happy. Something he'd always wanted for his clan, but not necessarily for himself. It unnerves him, somewhat― has he earned this? Is he deserving?
He's frowning by the time he returns to their room, contemplation drawing sharp lines over his austere features. "Well, someone looks cranky," Shadowheart notes when Iorveth closes the door behind him, looking up from her casual perch next to Lae'zel with a coquettish grin.
Iorveth folds his arms, defensive. ]
Have you tended to Astarion yet? [ Is a question that earns him a laugh-snort, the laugh from Shadowheart and the snort from Lae'zel: "he's been hiding", they say in unison.
Hm. Iorveth passes them by and strides over to his bed, spotting the lump of silver hidden under pillows and the dark fabric of his robe. ]
Stealthy, [ he remarks. Dry, but fond. ]
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All part of the 'party rogue' job description. Along with 'devilishly handsome' and 'lovable scoundrel'.
[ At least Lae'zel made no attempt to question him about their whereabouts the last few days while he was under the sheets. As ruthlessly logical as she is, he's sure she decided it wasn't worth the trouble and that she'd just harangue Iorveth when the time came. Or, less likely but still technically possible, she decided that they deserve their privacy.
He can still see the frown lines etched into Iorveth's face. Sitting up, he scoots back toward the headboard, brow furrowed. ]
How did it go with your brother-in-arms?
[ Did you talk about me? he holds back from saying. ]
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Well. [ He says, cryptically. A non-answer to indicate that it's a placeholder for a better one, one that he's stitching together in the moment; he takes in Astarion's face in the meantime, traces the cut of his jaw and the straight bridge of his nose with his eye as he thinks.
Finally, after a beat: ] He asked me if I truly cared for you. I said yes. [ They spoke about other things, too― mostly politics, and how Iorveth intends to play his role, and what the others will expect from him― but he expects that Astarion wouldn't care about them. ] He also asked me if I truly believed that you have feelings for me. Whether you were capable of them.
[ Another pause, followed by a hum. ] I said yes to this, also. ...He seemed satisfied by the answer, if reluctant to accept it.
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Of course I do.
[ He's been more vulnerable with Iorveth than he's ever been with another soul. Surely that proves his sincerity. Still, he can't help but feel bothered by Ciaran's apprehension, so he adds, teasing, ] Your heart is the greatest treasure I've stolen.
[ There's a tiny narcissistic flair to his words, as if he's proud of himself for having stolen something rare and precious. He pauses, then, eyes roving over Iorveth's face. ]
Far be it from me to ascribe any meaning to your scowls [ —because they're so incredibly common— ] but you weren't wearing the face of a man who just had something go well.
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The bed creaks under his weight when he sits on it. He reminds himself of the first night he'd asked Astarion to sleep next to him, how he'd felt like he'd scratch himself raw if he didn't have someone close by. There's a little bit of that now, as he opens his mouth to speak. ]
Do you want to hear a story?
[ It's as much of a warning as Iorveth can give. Just like "do you want to hear something funny", when Iorveth actually bothers asking someone if they want to, it's because he knows he has nothing very pleasant to say. ]
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Well, emotions can be tricky. He knows that better than anyone. If this is how Iorveth wants to talk about it, then it's how they'll have to talk about it. He even swallows the urge to be flippant about it and ask Iorveth to tell it with hand puppets instead. (And Ciaran questioned if Astarion had feelings for him! The sacrifices he makes.)
He can't quite say he wants to hear the story—he needs to know more than wants to know—so he replies, ] Tell me.
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I was chained by humans alongside thirty-two of my comrades. [ A weird place to start, considering they were just talking about Ciaran. But Iorveth continues anyway, raising one hand as if to say "there's a point I want to make", resting it back on the mattress after he lets it hover. ] Sometimes I think about how I survived our imprisonment when all but one other died― and I come to the same conclusion. I was simply the loudest.
[ He idly rubs one of his wrists with his palm. ]
I screamed myself hoarse, those few weeks. I cursed, I spit, I pleaded. I suppose it amused the humans to hear me beg; not for myself, but for the others. They delighted in watching me want something they wouldn't give, and for that, they kept me alive.
[ Funny. Iorveth tips his head up, and laughs soundlessly and humorlessly under his breath. ]
I survived the humans and doomed the others, all for my loudness. My wanting. [ His tone turns slightly bitter, though he thinks to clamp back on it, his thumb digging into the hard jut of his wrist. ] Which brings me to Ciaran.
He spoke to me of my happiness today, and I― [ Hm, he hums. ] ―I wondered, I suppose. I'd spent so long after becoming free again becoming louder but wanting less.
I suppose I wondered if I deserve you. [ Context, conclusion. A longwinded way to say that he's killed so many people for caring about them, and that he, perhaps, is the least entitled person on this world to continue making that stupid mistake. ]
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