[ The purpose of the vantage point is to watch, and Iorveth watches as Astarion scoots and repositions, chin momentarily dipping towards the hands folded on his lap until it snap upwards again with false purpose. A mask, Iorveth thinks― one that Astarion wears well, and perhaps even wears until the bravado becomes real, but a mask nevertheless.

He sighs. Soft, almost inaudible. With that done, he relinquishes his advantage of perspective to close the gap again, sliding his arms around Astarion's shoulders to tug him, a little forcibly, into an embrace. ]

Fool. [ Annoyed, almost. Fondly, but with exasperation. ] Do you think I could bear the thought of you surviving?

[ Memories of Astarion huddled under that broken bridge, talking about how humiliated he'd felt when the sun rejected him again― they overlay onto unpleasant offers made by Astarion, the suggestions that he could seduce his way out of things again. Iorveth wants none of that to touch his beloved again, ever. ]

If you care a whit about my happiness, know that it's tied to yours. Or did you think I was speaking falsely when I said I wished to build my future with you?

[ More chiding. ]