[ The existential horror of not being able to remember oneself. Iorveth can't imagine it, as an elf who has existed, iron-gripped and bloody-clawed, around his sense of identity－ it's unthinkable, the amount of torment that had to be inflicted on someone to make them have to forget who they'd been before their torture.

It doesn't make him happy, really, to know that Astarion can't recall. Too reminiscent of haunted, gaunt elves who'd forgotten how to live after being starved and mistreated. Iorveth leans back in Astarion's hands, nuzzling into the cradle of fingers pleasantly rubbing product into his hair. ]

I'm not worth so much.

[ Astarion should have been entitled to his past. Iorveth believes that, is still convinced of that, point blank. But he understands the sentiment, and it makes him ache. ]

Whatever you can't remember, rebuild. Find what pleases you now, and let no one tell you you've not earned it.

[ Another gentle turn between Astarion's hands, ill-advisedly pressing his damp cheek to a soap-slick palm. ]