[ 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. ]
[ The story is, as expected, grim. Astarion frowns, the notion of being kept around to beg for someone else's amusement hitting too close to home. He wonders if Iorveth felt humiliated, small, the way Astarion did when Cazador and Godey would laugh at his pleading. Perhaps he couldn't feel anything other than anger. That's what rises up inside him now: fury at the humans who treated Iorveth like a dog to be chained.
How many times has he said that the Aen Seidhe were weak, that their crusade for freedom was pointless? It's hypocritical, now, to shed a tear for their plight, but he finds himself incensed regardless. He has to take an unnecessary breath to release the tension in his shoulders.
Seemingly apropos of nothing: ] I let one of Cazador's victims go, once. Centuries ago.
[ One of his victims, too. Those spawn behind the bars in the crypt were nearly as much his doing as they were Cazador's. His voice lowers, hesitant to be overheard sharing something so vulnerable. ]
I couldn't bear to think of what Cazador would do to him. I suppose I— liked him. [ As much as one can like someone they're leading on for their master's sake. ] He was sweet. Like you. [ He nudges their shoulders together. ] Cazador punished me harshly, of course. A year back in my grave.
[ Starving, wondering if anyone would ever come for him. He'd begged and pleaded then, too. It had changed him; sometimes it had felt like he never really got out. ]
I never let myself care for anyone again. [ He could care for someone or keep himself safe, but never both. Like a wild animal, his only focus was his own survival. ] Until you.
[ Until stupid, ridiculous, lovely Iorveth trudged into his life. He'd found him intolerable at first. Like he saw right through to Astarion's core and found his true self wanting. But then he'd been sincere, and he'd understood what it was like to have been ground into the dirt until there was nothing left of you, and he'd smiled. ]
There is no 'deserve'. There's only what we want, and I want you. You're the light that led me out of my grave.
[ If he's embarrassed by how incredibly corny this all is, he keeps it inside. Iorveth is being vulnerable. The least he can do is try to do the same. ]
[ That wound-tight thread in him tightens and loosens, tightens and loosens. Sympathy and anger, like the moving of tides; a part of him wishes to return to Cazador's mansion just to tread on the festering remains of his rotten corpse.
A year, he thinks. He thinks back to his weeks of living in decay, and thinks of it extending well past the maddening expanse of months, stretched into an interminable year. He also imagines himself on the other side of Astarion's prison, fighting and begging for a year for him to be let out. A strange thing, to take comfort in the fact that he would have, that he would.
Iorveth closes his eye. I want you makes him feel as heartsick as Astarion agreeing to stay; if only Ciaran hadn't framed this as his happiness, he might have let himself be blind for longer. ]
I want you.
[ With quiet vehemence. Iorveth opens his eye, fixes Astarion with a focus that probably matches Astarion's "too-much"ness. This, at least, they have in common. ]
The happiness I feel, I may not deserve. But I want you. [ A pause, hesitant, before he reaches out to rest his hand against Astarion's knee. ] I would give the humans my other eye if it meant that you would live, and that I could keep wanting you.
[ Those three words are heartening. I want you. He's been wanted for his looks before, but never for his whole person. Centuries of being kicked down had made him think he never would be, and he'd made his peace with that, told himself he didn't need it. Needing someone else was a weakness, he'd thought. Maybe it is, in a way, because he can't tolerate the thought of ever going without now. He's going to make Iorveth say that he wants him every day.
He snakes a hand around Iorveth's shoulders, gently scratching between his shoulder blades in a way meant to soothe. ]
And you'd still look handsome.
[ A crooked smile to go with the flirt. ]
But let's avoid carving out any of our eyes if we can. Seems like messy work.
[ His fingernails drag against the soft fabric of Iorveth's shirt, back and forth. ]
You make me happy. [ Somehow, this feels like a more intimate confession than any other. ] I plan to make you happy whether you're brooding about deserving it or not.
[ A moment of hesitation, before he sways into Astarion's hold. It feels nice, the nails along his shoulders, and Iorveth hooks his own arm around Astarion's waist to settle against him. More careful than he's been with anyone else. ]
...I'd not planned to ask you to come with me. For days, I told myself that you needed to shape your own freedom, your own life.
[ He laughs about it, and shakes his head. Slightly melancholy, but warmly resigned nevertheless. ]
Look how quickly you broke my resolve. Iorveth, the Woodland Fox― just a man, after all.
[ He drops a kiss onto Astarion's shoulder, and relaxes. ] We'll see where happiness takes us, then. [ There's something murmured in his native language, a term of endearment that he knows Astarion won't understand; it's mostly for his own benefit, to punctuate the sentiment.
One more half-nuzzle against Astarion's neck, and Iorveth straightens. ] ...I've one more thing to report. Entirely unrelated to the topic of wanting you, unfortunately.
[ The hand on Iorveth's back stills, and he whines, ] And just when we were having a moment.
[ It's terribly uncouth to taint the moment with news, especially because the sort of news they get never seems to be good. Still, he supposes Iorveth wouldn't report anything not worth hearing. He's not one to waste words. Like many things about Iorveth, it's something he finds both charming and unbearable, depending on what words Iorveth decides to say.
He sighs. ]
I guess I have to let you talk about something else some of the time.
[ But make no mistake, he still expects Iorveth to compliment him most of the time. ]
[ A ghost of a smile, as Iorveth moves his hand from Astarion's waist to his hair, burying his fingers in soft silver strands. His turn to soothe, to ease some of the whine out of Astarion's voice. ]
It could be nothing, [ as a disclaimer first, and then: ] but, with some certainty, one of your siblings was following me while I was out.
[ He remembers red eyes following him in the gloom; something he likely only noticed because of his own paranoia and his newly-formed awareness of similarly-red eyes. Not to moon too much over Astarion, but his shade of red is still the prettiest. ]
How dangerous would you consider the other six? I don't expect them to be as skilled in combat as you are.
[ Biased? Maybe. But none of the other six spawn fought alongside him in Moonrise Towers against a bunch of cultists, so Iorveth will stick by his opinion. ]
[ The soothing pressure of Iorveth's fingers carding through his curls turns out to be necessary, because he tenses at the mention of one of his siblings. It's not that he thought they'd just go away once Cazador was dead, but he'd... sort of hoped they would. It's his turn now to scowl, shoulders inching up toward his ears. ]
You didn't think to lead with that? [ he asks, right after complaining that Iorveth interrupted their shmoop to tell him. ] You let me give that whole speech about my feelings instead?
[ He can't help but cringe a little. Now that the moment has passed, it does seem like it was very, very corny.
Astarion huffs, turning over the new information in his mind. ]
I suppose it depends on which one we're dealing with. Leon was a sorcerer or wizard of some sort before the bite, and Dalyria is rather cunning, when she wants to be. She fancied herself a physician.
[ He digs a fang into his bottom lip. ]
The others— well, Aurelia has some claws of her own, but Petras is an idiot and Yousen is, well, a gnome. If he causes us any trouble, you could just punt him across the city.
[ Iorveth, a weird freak, looks a little bemused by the fact that Astarion is so concerned about the potential spawn assassin on their trail, mostly because Iorveth is so used to people wanting to kill him on the regular that anything about his sincere positive emotional reactions (rare) feels so much more dire than someone who wants to slit his throat (common).
He tilts his head. The hike of his brow in response to Astarion's huffing conveys "what is the big deal here", which says a lot about Iorveth, probably. ]
Mm. Noted.
[ Combing his fingers through Astarion's hair, visibly more relaxed than when he was talking about being happy. ]
Either they think they'll get answers about what you've been up to through me, or they're curious as to how I taste. [ Both of these things are funny to think about. ] I'll do my best not to kill them, if they decide to show themselves instead of skulking around.
[ Iorveth is a freak. Astarion can't comprehend how he isn't at least a little paranoid about this; even if they're happy Cazador's dead, they have plenty of reason to resent him. He wasn't always kind even when acting of his own free will, and he certainly did his part when commanded to by Cazador. Who would forgive him for the sort of torture he inflicted on them under Cazador's thrall?
He slumps where he sits, brow furrowing in thought. ]
Not for my sake, I hope. There's no love lost between us.
[ Well— perhaps that isn't entirely true. Cazador called them a family, and in some ways, they were. Two centuries with only them as companionship. Their company was unpleasant more often than not, but there's some sort of kinship there. Like the sort of affection one might have for a mangy, flea-ridden alley cat they see on the walk to work every day.
Still, if it comes down to him or them—or Iorveth or them, gods forbid—he knows what to pick. ]
I don't want to be surprised. Maybe we should make ourselves the hunters and not the hunted.
[ No love lost. Iorveth wonders if it's as simple as that, but doesn't press that issue further unless Astarion wants to talk about it. (It seems they've done so much of that today, really. Talking about things.)
Sibling bonds forced through pain, instead of forged through trust. For the millionth time, Iorveth wonders what it must've been like to live for two centuries without anyone to turn to; he's lost and lost and lost, but at least he's had others to love before the losing.
Dryly teasing: ] You could put me in manacles again.
[ "Why not use me as bait": a practical tactic according to a madman. Iorveth tucks a piece of hair behind Astarion's ear, idly playing with the cartilage. ]
But, mm. I agree－ best to anticipate and take control. It would do us good to know what the other spawn could want, now that Cazador is gone.
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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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How many times has he said that the Aen Seidhe were weak, that their crusade for freedom was pointless? It's hypocritical, now, to shed a tear for their plight, but he finds himself incensed regardless. He has to take an unnecessary breath to release the tension in his shoulders.
Seemingly apropos of nothing: ] I let one of Cazador's victims go, once. Centuries ago.
[ One of his victims, too. Those spawn behind the bars in the crypt were nearly as much his doing as they were Cazador's. His voice lowers, hesitant to be overheard sharing something so vulnerable. ]
I couldn't bear to think of what Cazador would do to him. I suppose I— liked him. [ As much as one can like someone they're leading on for their master's sake. ] He was sweet. Like you. [ He nudges their shoulders together. ] Cazador punished me harshly, of course. A year back in my grave.
[ Starving, wondering if anyone would ever come for him. He'd begged and pleaded then, too. It had changed him; sometimes it had felt like he never really got out. ]
I never let myself care for anyone again. [ He could care for someone or keep himself safe, but never both. Like a wild animal, his only focus was his own survival. ] Until you.
[ Until stupid, ridiculous, lovely Iorveth trudged into his life. He'd found him intolerable at first. Like he saw right through to Astarion's core and found his true self wanting. But then he'd been sincere, and he'd understood what it was like to have been ground into the dirt until there was nothing left of you, and he'd smiled. ]
There is no 'deserve'. There's only what we want, and I want you. You're the light that led me out of my grave.
[ If he's embarrassed by how incredibly corny this all is, he keeps it inside. Iorveth is being vulnerable. The least he can do is try to do the same. ]
Don't you want me, too?
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A year, he thinks. He thinks back to his weeks of living in decay, and thinks of it extending well past the maddening expanse of months, stretched into an interminable year. He also imagines himself on the other side of Astarion's prison, fighting and begging for a year for him to be let out. A strange thing, to take comfort in the fact that he would have, that he would.
Iorveth closes his eye. I want you makes him feel as heartsick as Astarion agreeing to stay; if only Ciaran hadn't framed this as his happiness, he might have let himself be blind for longer. ]
I want you.
[ With quiet vehemence. Iorveth opens his eye, fixes Astarion with a focus that probably matches Astarion's "too-much"ness. This, at least, they have in common. ]
The happiness I feel, I may not deserve. But I want you. [ A pause, hesitant, before he reaches out to rest his hand against Astarion's knee. ] I would give the humans my other eye if it meant that you would live, and that I could keep wanting you.
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He snakes a hand around Iorveth's shoulders, gently scratching between his shoulder blades in a way meant to soothe. ]
And you'd still look handsome.
[ A crooked smile to go with the flirt. ]
But let's avoid carving out any of our eyes if we can. Seems like messy work.
[ His fingernails drag against the soft fabric of Iorveth's shirt, back and forth. ]
You make me happy. [ Somehow, this feels like a more intimate confession than any other. ] I plan to make you happy whether you're brooding about deserving it or not.
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...I'd not planned to ask you to come with me. For days, I told myself that you needed to shape your own freedom, your own life.
[ He laughs about it, and shakes his head. Slightly melancholy, but warmly resigned nevertheless. ]
Look how quickly you broke my resolve. Iorveth, the Woodland Fox― just a man, after all.
[ He drops a kiss onto Astarion's shoulder, and relaxes. ] We'll see where happiness takes us, then. [ There's something murmured in his native language, a term of endearment that he knows Astarion won't understand; it's mostly for his own benefit, to punctuate the sentiment.
One more half-nuzzle against Astarion's neck, and Iorveth straightens. ] ...I've one more thing to report. Entirely unrelated to the topic of wanting you, unfortunately.
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[ It's terribly uncouth to taint the moment with news, especially because the sort of news they get never seems to be good. Still, he supposes Iorveth wouldn't report anything not worth hearing. He's not one to waste words. Like many things about Iorveth, it's something he finds both charming and unbearable, depending on what words Iorveth decides to say.
He sighs. ]
I guess I have to let you talk about something else some of the time.
[ But make no mistake, he still expects Iorveth to compliment him most of the time. ]
What is it?
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It could be nothing, [ as a disclaimer first, and then: ] but, with some certainty, one of your siblings was following me while I was out.
[ He remembers red eyes following him in the gloom; something he likely only noticed because of his own paranoia and his newly-formed awareness of similarly-red eyes. Not to moon too much over Astarion, but his shade of red is still the prettiest. ]
How dangerous would you consider the other six? I don't expect them to be as skilled in combat as you are.
[ Biased? Maybe. But none of the other six spawn fought alongside him in Moonrise Towers against a bunch of cultists, so Iorveth will stick by his opinion. ]
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You didn't think to lead with that? [ he asks, right after complaining that Iorveth interrupted their shmoop to tell him. ] You let me give that whole speech about my feelings instead?
[ He can't help but cringe a little. Now that the moment has passed, it does seem like it was very, very corny.
Astarion huffs, turning over the new information in his mind. ]
I suppose it depends on which one we're dealing with. Leon was a sorcerer or wizard of some sort before the bite, and Dalyria is rather cunning, when she wants to be. She fancied herself a physician.
[ He digs a fang into his bottom lip. ]
The others— well, Aurelia has some claws of her own, but Petras is an idiot and Yousen is, well, a gnome. If he causes us any trouble, you could just punt him across the city.
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He tilts his head. The hike of his brow in response to Astarion's huffing conveys "what is the big deal here", which says a lot about Iorveth, probably. ]
Mm. Noted.
[ Combing his fingers through Astarion's hair, visibly more relaxed than when he was talking about being happy. ]
Either they think they'll get answers about what you've been up to through me, or they're curious as to how I taste. [ Both of these things are funny to think about. ] I'll do my best not to kill them, if they decide to show themselves instead of skulking around.
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He slumps where he sits, brow furrowing in thought. ]
Not for my sake, I hope. There's no love lost between us.
[ Well— perhaps that isn't entirely true. Cazador called them a family, and in some ways, they were. Two centuries with only them as companionship. Their company was unpleasant more often than not, but there's some sort of kinship there. Like the sort of affection one might have for a mangy, flea-ridden alley cat they see on the walk to work every day.
Still, if it comes down to him or them—or Iorveth or them, gods forbid—he knows what to pick. ]
I don't want to be surprised. Maybe we should make ourselves the hunters and not the hunted.
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Sibling bonds forced through pain, instead of forged through trust. For the millionth time, Iorveth wonders what it must've been like to live for two centuries without anyone to turn to; he's lost and lost and lost, but at least he's had others to love before the losing.
Dryly teasing: ] You could put me in manacles again.
[ "Why not use me as bait": a practical tactic according to a madman. Iorveth tucks a piece of hair behind Astarion's ear, idly playing with the cartilage. ]
But, mm. I agree－ best to anticipate and take control. It would do us good to know what the other spawn could want, now that Cazador is gone.
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