[ Iorveth winces through the treatment of the injury, shifting and raising his wounded arm to allow the bandages to wrap around his body. The pain is a steady pulse, made more tolerable by the poultice; he'll have to get his arm looked at by a proper cleric sometime soon, if he doesn't want that cut to scar permanently.

Later. Now, he's taken off-guard by the assertion that Astarion wanted to― of all things― protect him. Instinct tells him to snap back with a "do I look like a man who needs to be protected", but objectivity lets him see the absurdity of that statement and understand that, without Astarion, he really might have been arrested today.

It's not a happy realization. His expression twists into a grimace, the sentiment aimed inwards. ]

My injury is the result of my own sloppiness. Not a failure on your part.

[ He places a palm on Astarion's cheek, tracing the edge of his frown. ]

...Something like this happening would usually make one reconsider staying with a terrorist.

[ Again: Astarion deserves better. Being with Gale in Waterdeep or learning how to garden with Shadowheart would be far less complicated than being chased by racists with sharp weapons. ]