[ He does spare a huff-laugh at "thought-provoking". Half the time, Iorveth assumes that Astarion reacts to things with instinct, not intellect. An unflattering assessment, probably, but then again, Iorveth has resigned himself to the torturous knowledge that he perceives this as something cute about Astarion instead of something he actively wants to strangle out of him. (Most of the time, anyway.)
Meandering through the crowd, past the muffled mummy, Iorveth finds a bit of raised pavement near the exit of the circus for them to sit on. High-strung pennants wave in the breeze above them, casting funny little triangular shadows. ]
Would you accept anything less than "you"?
[ Settling on the stone perch, his tone slightly breezy. Deflecting, just a bit. He thinks back to what he'd said post-regicide, that it doesn't matter what he wants as long as the plight of his clan is still in question; the matter of the Aen Seidhe's survival is more than just a personal desire. It's the only thing that's kept him together, that's given his aching chasm of anger and hurt and despair any measure of purpose at all.
Sure, he wants peace. He wants to sit in a room and eat food and feel utterly convinced that nothing and no one will endanger him; in all of the dreams he's ever had about this, he'd been sitting in this peace, alone.
Now, he thinks he might have the same dream, but with Astarion curled up next to him. A cozy room, a table laden with dishes, and silver hair in his periphery.
Iorveth leans back where he's sitting, watching the sun slowly make its descent towards the horizon. Trying not to look too much like this question still trips him up. ] I can list my fears more readily than I can list my desires.
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Meandering through the crowd, past the muffled mummy, Iorveth finds a bit of raised pavement near the exit of the circus for them to sit on. High-strung pennants wave in the breeze above them, casting funny little triangular shadows. ]
Would you accept anything less than "you"?
[ Settling on the stone perch, his tone slightly breezy. Deflecting, just a bit. He thinks back to what he'd said post-regicide, that it doesn't matter what he wants as long as the plight of his clan is still in question; the matter of the Aen Seidhe's survival is more than just a personal desire. It's the only thing that's kept him together, that's given his aching chasm of anger and hurt and despair any measure of purpose at all.
Sure, he wants peace. He wants to sit in a room and eat food and feel utterly convinced that nothing and no one will endanger him; in all of the dreams he's ever had about this, he'd been sitting in this peace, alone.
Now, he thinks he might have the same dream, but with Astarion curled up next to him. A cozy room, a table laden with dishes, and silver hair in his periphery.
Iorveth leans back where he's sitting, watching the sun slowly make its descent towards the horizon. Trying not to look too much like this question still trips him up. ] I can list my fears more readily than I can list my desires.