[ It's likely that the hogtied tiefling in the other room wouldn't recognize the doting wood elf for the stone-faced kidnapper that'd burnt his fingers just hours ago. In front of Astarion, Iorveth is the man he might have been if the Aen Seidhe were never a persecuted people; he smiles, he laughs. He's happy, as if grief hasn't turned him irreparably inside out.

And gods, Astarion is so lovely. Silver hair spilling on violet fabric, red eyes like dark amber in lamplight. Iorveth lifts up just enough to get a better look at him, soft and relaxed and trusting, and feels his heart seize with affection for the hundredth time tonight. ]

Never again, then.

[ A familiar mantra. One that he's told himself countless times, after he pried himself out of his shackles, starved and beaten and half-dead. Never again, never again. ]

You'll never be alone again. I'll make sure of it. [ He can't bear the thought of Astarion sitting with his knees drawn up and his shoulders hunched, cowering in the shadow of crates again. Never. ]

My beloved, [ Iorveth continues, choosing to shower Astarion with praise and affirmation. ] My sun, my happiness. [ Fingers card through Astarion's hair, tangling gently. ] ...Will you want a ring for yourself?