[ A low breath, in and out. For a moment, he steels himself against the sickening idea that the coolness of Astarion's skin might actually feel unpleasant in his current state, and tenses when he's pulled back inwards― but the idea remains just an idea, and he relaxes into the reality of the familiar weight and shape of Astarion, and how welcome he feels compared to the lingering chill of his memories.

Tell me rankles just a bit ("I'm trying not to burden you with this bullshit"), but he also knows how he would react if the tables were turned, so. Another inhale, and he focuses his attention on the slow slide of a palm against his back. "Comforting" is the correct term for it. ]

...The past, [ he finally offers by way of explanation, to the tune of "you should know how it is." ] We were marching― I was chained to another elf.

[ No context. A clumsy effort at obliging "tell me", which is rare for Iorveth― he likes to choose his words more carefully than this. ]

He died of exhaustion and infection sometime during the day. The humans only watched and laughed. I spent the next few days with the corpse still dragging by my side. Cold, rotting―

[ A humorless laugh, and he shakes his head for the millionth time. ] ―A mortifying thing, for one bad night to have made me remember again. ...Worse still, that I let myself mistake you for being dead.

[ Again, Astarion is dead, but. He knows he doesn't have to say that. ]