[ If Iorveth were dying, he'd already be out on the streets tracking down Henrik so that he could rip his throat out with his teeth. He still wants—and plans—to end Henrik's miserable life, but he decides not to share that information with Iorveth just yet. No need for him to start insisting to come along, wounds and all. ]

Perhaps I'll see about her tailoring something pretty for you.

[ The only thing more satisfactory than imagining his own wardrobe is fantasizing about dressing Iorveth up like his own personal doll. A deep red would flatter him, Astarion thinks. He'd make sure the collar was cut low to show off Iorveth's tattoo and the curve of his throat. Already pleased by the mere mental image, he sighs dreamily.

His hand flits to Iorveth's uninjured shoulder, and he presses against it, more gentle than his usual touches but still just as insistent. ]

The least you can do is rest. You've lost rather a lot of blood today.

[ He presses a light, chaste kiss to the tip of Iorveth's nose before standing, the small bed creaking slightly as he does so. While the tortoiseshell cat follows behind him, clearly afraid of missing out on anything interesting, he tries not to feel jealous of its sibling getting to cuddle up with Iorveth. ]

I'll return before long, but feel free to miss me terribly.