[ The relief he feels when Iorveth relents is palpable, washing over him like rain. It's problematic how attached he's become to this strange, angry wood elf. He's everything Astarion detests—serious to a fault, deeply committed to a cause, smug—and yet he feels nothing of the like toward him, only warm affection, sometimes soft and comforting like lying in the sun and other times so hot it burns. Love is sometimes awful, the thought of something bad happening to him making Astarion feel like crawling out of his skin, but it's somehow all worth enduring for the feel of his palm against Astarion's cheek.
Oh, he's beyond help. He trails behind Iorveth like a loyal dog without even thinking about it, the act a natural instinct by now. Astarion will be little help navigating the wildernesss, he fears: every direction he turns looks the same to him. All green and brown, leafy foliage, tree trunks. It surprises even him that he has enough faith in Iorveth to follow him out into the woods when the consequences for him could be dire—even fatal, should the sun come up before they return to shelter—but he does; Iorveth, he knows, will do everything in his power to ensure that Astarion doesn't turn to cinders in the morning light.
Again, he feels a little twinge of— what? Embarrassment? Self-loathing? If not for his condition, Iorveth wouldn't have to consider these sort of things at all. He shakes the thought out of his head, disheveled hair growing even more humiliatingly messy, and steps up next to Iorveth. ]
Your wish is my... [ He trails off, thoughtful. 'Command' isn't quite right, considering he argues with Iorveth about nearly everything. Finally, he finishes: ] Strongly considered suggestion.
no subject
Oh, he's beyond help. He trails behind Iorveth like a loyal dog without even thinking about it, the act a natural instinct by now. Astarion will be little help navigating the wildernesss, he fears: every direction he turns looks the same to him. All green and brown, leafy foliage, tree trunks. It surprises even him that he has enough faith in Iorveth to follow him out into the woods when the consequences for him could be dire—even fatal, should the sun come up before they return to shelter—but he does; Iorveth, he knows, will do everything in his power to ensure that Astarion doesn't turn to cinders in the morning light.
Again, he feels a little twinge of— what? Embarrassment? Self-loathing? If not for his condition, Iorveth wouldn't have to consider these sort of things at all. He shakes the thought out of his head, disheveled hair growing even more humiliatingly messy, and steps up next to Iorveth. ]
Your wish is my... [ He trails off, thoughtful. 'Command' isn't quite right, considering he argues with Iorveth about nearly everything. Finally, he finishes: ] Strongly considered suggestion.