[ The man holding the dagger hums, pressing the flat of his blade against Astarion's torso in mock-consideration. His companion, the one who was spit at, snaps that it's just a bluff, but is silenced with a wave and a well-aimed shut up.
"Might make it easier for us to have a spare. Heard Iorveth's pretty tight-lipped."
Ropes wrap around Astarion's wrists, mirroring Iorveth's state of captivity; the soldier behind Astarion tests the integrity of the bindings by gleefully pulling against them and breaking his victim's balance with the intention to get him on his knees.
Iorveth, meanwhile― he gets it. He bows his head in mock-defeat, hiding his overwhelming relief that they didn't slit Astarion's throat straight away. Clever, he thinks, and closes his eye against the inevitable jeering that follows his false gesture of despair.
"Alright, long-ears. We'll take you along, but any funny business and you're a dead elf."
More chatter: something about elves being so untrustworthy that they'll sell other elves out for a pittance, something else about taking them to the town of Flotsam, nestled in the forest east of Waterdeep. He feels fingers tangling in his hair, jerking his head up and forcing his face in Astarion's direction.
"Doesn't pay to be loyal to your race, now, does it?" Iorveth snarls in response, and headbutts the man under his broad chin. Fuck you. ]
[ Astarion has never, ever, once in his life had a plan, and it's never been more clear than now, looking back at Iorveth with wide eyes. The sight of Iorveth like this makes him feel even sicker than before, and he longs to cut off the fingers that dared to touch him so roughly. He won't be doing anything of the sort, though, not unless he can get out of these bindings.
He's never missed the tadpole so much. No creature stirs inside his head, reaching out to telepathically comfort its cousin. There's only silence and distance. ]
Flotsam? [ he asks, attention piqued. ] How long will it take to get there? —Before daybreak, do you think?
[ "Typical high elf," laughs the man currently jerking him around by the rope around his wrists. "Making demands, even now." ]
[ Iorveth has heard of Flotsam: a trading post by the Dessarin River that serves as the last stop for river-traveling merchants from the north who are looking to peddle goods in Waterdeep. A rowdy town of ill repute, helmed by a notoriously racist shithead by the name of Bernard Loredo.
Great.
Iorveth holds Astarion's wide-eyed look with steady focus for the second he's allowed it; the men start dragging him towards their camp, and shove Astarion as a way to indicate that he should follow.
"We'll be there by noon," the fifth human (a passive observer of the unfolding events thus far) replies, leading the rest of the pack. "And before you get your hopes up, we won't be traveling on the main road. So don't expect some hero to cross our way to save you lot."
More jostling, more dragging. The camp that the two of them are taken to boils down to a fire and a few bedrolls, three horses tied to trees, and a small hay cart that they throw Iorveth onto.
"The Commandant'll pay us a pretty penny for bringing you two to him," the fifth man (possibly the leader of the gang) says to Astarion. "More, if you tell him what he wants to hear. So I'm expecting honesty out of you." ]
[ Noon. Fuck. Fuck. Astarion still has nothing resembling a plan, but 'don't burn to a crisp' should probably be on it when he does. He stares up at the sky, still dark, stars peeking through the forest canopy. Is it too much to ask for it to be overcast?
He's staring at the campfire, wondering how bad of an idea it would be to start a forest fire as a diversion, when the leader addresses him. As he glances up, it takes everything in him not to spit again. Instead, he smiles mildly, deception coming back to him like riding a bike. ]
You can count on me. Cross my heart and hope to— well, I'd rather not die.
[ His eyes trail over to Iorveth, shoved unceremoniously onto a cart like cargo. ]
You know, I'm sure I could get more out of him if I could speak to him. He has a tendency of running that awful mouth when you get him going.
[ Another smile, as innocent as he can manage. ]
Besides, it's not like he can do anything with his hands tied.
[ A perfect smile, largely lost on men whose poor opinion of elves have twisted their perceptions. The man raises his brow, skeptical, before his lips curve into a serrated grin.
"What, are you his handler or something?"
Innuendo. His companions leer, though they lack any real heat behind their eyes to indicate that they perceive Astarion as anything but a strange novelty.
"Bet you handle him real well," another man says, feigning gagging as he strides over to Iorveth and starts loosening the straps of his bit. "Fine. But if he starts makin' a ruckus－"
Another serrated smile. "－We'll take his other eye." He pats the knife strapped to his hip, before waving a dismissive hand and walking back to his horse. ]
[ Ew. Astarion resists the urge to gag for another reason entirely, instead only nodding compliantly. ]
Oh, I'll make sure he doesn't make a ruckus. [ Then, with a shrug of his shoulders: ] Or not. It's no difference to me if he keeps that eye.
[ In truth, he'd be beside himself. Iorveth has already been hurt enough by the removal of his first eye. Another mangling would damage him too much, possibly beyond repair. Then again, repair may not be worth thinking about when their lives could end in a matter of hours, not days.
As the humans converge around their campfire, eating bits of jerky from their packs, Astarion leans against the hay cart. ]
Darling, [ he says, voice lowered. He feels stupid now for snapping at Iorveth earlier. (It will happen again.) ]
[ Having been snapped at by Astarion is truly the least of Iorveth's problems; he barely remembers it now, lip split and face bruised, his mouth sore from the metal that'd been in his mouth. More worrying is the fist-shaped discoloration spreading on Astarion's cheek, and the uncomfortable way Astarion's shoulders are pulled back to accommodate his bindings.
Gods, he hates humans so much. Hoarsely: ]
Astarion. [ Shifting on the cart, trying to regulate his emotions as much as he can manage. ] You need to run.
[ If he'd felt this way back when they were trying to kill Henselt, he feels it a hundredfold now. There's only so much than cunning can do in the face of five men who'd feel nothing if either of them dies; Iorveth isn't fine with dying like this, but he's at least ready for it. ]
[ Run. Another version of himself would have agreed, but that feels like a lifetime ago now. Sure, he could run, and perhaps he'd even get away if he were lucky enough. He'd be alive, at least by some measure of the word, but Iorveth wouldn't be for long. The men might even kill him right away to ensure that he didn't get away, too, and it would be Astarion's fault. What would be the point, then, in living? If that's his only option, then he might as well lie down and die by Iorveth's side.
[ To the tune of "listen to me, dumbass." It's been a small age since he's used this tone with Astarion, and it's coming back into play in the worst situation possible. Of all the times and places for the elves to start fighting, of course it has to be now.
Iorveth narrows his own eye, retaliatory. ]
Use your invisibility spell. No matter what they promise, they will kill you if you don't run now.
[ Uncharacteristically fatalistic of him; he doesn't want to think that it's the fear of Astarion dying that's speaking, but it very well might be. ]
You've earned your freedom. Don't waste it here, you fool.
[ To the outside observer, they certainly look like an elf and the man who just betrayed him. Astarion's expression turns furious, and he leans in further, shoulders hunched as the rope pulls at his wrists. He hisses, ] You're supposed to come up with a plan, not just— lie down and die.
[ Gods, he's never been so angry in his life. His face slowly turns red, fang pressing so deeply into his lower lip that it cuts the skin of his mouth. He hardly notices. How dare Iorveth even think to take himself away from him, he thinks immaturely. And because of what, a few dumb humans? ]
If you want me to survive, then I suppose you'll just have to come up with something better. [ Emotional blackmail, he knows. ] Whatever your fate, I plan to share it.
[ Wholly unintentional, most likely, but "come up with a plan if you want to survive" is such a well-aimed statement that it momentarily knocks the wind out of Iorveth. All that familiar rage of deaths he couldn't accept, the unfiltered, corrosive despair he'd held close to his chest every time he'd huddled against the gaunt, hollowed outlines of once-beautiful elves.
In that moment of breathless agony, Iorveth stares at Astarion with self-imposed blankness. Allowing any sort of emotion to bleed through his cracks would be to bare fangs at Astarion, which he won't allow; any accusations along the lines of don't you know how it feels would be comical to the point of parody― the irony is that of course Astarion knows. Astarion knows the shape of agony more than anyone.
A beat, and the miles of distance that Iorveth shoves between them start to shrink. Rather, he allows them to. His throat bobs, and air whistles through his teeth. ]
Stupid. [ Softly, with no real edge. ] Stupid. You're such a fool.
[ It sounds a little like "I love you". Iorveth sinks sideways, resting his head against the scratchy wood of the hay cart. ]
There are elves in the forests near Flotsam. I could send them a message via bird, if the humans don't gag me again. [ His tone is neutral, flat. It's a long shot; not everyone is willing to help a known criminal, even for the sake of elf justice. ]
[ Stupid has never sounded so sweet. Relief floods over him, every muscle he'd unconsciously tightened slowly relaxing. Let Iorveth think he's a fool; at least he'll be alive to think anything at all. He's so happy that he could kiss Iorveth, but he refrains, both because it would blow what little cover they have and because, well, it would be a bit weird without hands. ]
They won't, not if I say that you're telling me valuable information. Coin breeds stupidity.
[ He doesn't know that, not really, but Iorveth has given him an inch and he's delusionally willing to take a mile. There's nothing left for him to do besides hope, even if it's a little detached from reality.
Astarion pauses before adding, softly, ] You didn't doubt me, even though I said I'd sell you out.
Stupid, [ he says softly, for the millionth time. ] Why would I?
I've given you my heart. I trust you with my life.
[ Strangely naive of him, perhaps. There it is again, his bad habit of putting all of his eggs in one basket and being disappointed if and when they come back a mess: yes, he didn't doubt that Astarion was bluffing. Yes, he didn't consider what would happen if Astarion were planning on betraying him. Yes, he would have been devastated if Astarion actually did betray him. Another painful lesson to learn on top of all the others in his life.
That said: ] Astarion. [ More firmly this time: ] I'll not lie down and accept death so easily. But if things go south, promise me you'll look out for yourself, first and foremost.
[ Something he'd said before, warm and drunk and lovesick in a bathhouse: that he hadn't wanted Astarion to play hero. Some part of that still holds. ]
[ Astarion falters. There had been a time when he would have assured Iorveth that he's only looking out for number one all by himself, with no prompting needed. Now, his response to Iorveth's question is annoyance, offense. Why would he even still be here if he only wanted to look out for himself? He would have already run for the hills long ago, leaving Iorveth behind to be tortured and gutted by these animals. There's nothing in it for him except the potential of more pain and suffering, yet he finds himself unable to leave. What had he thought, back when he'd stayed behind to fight Henselt's men with Iorveth? Oh, right: fuck it.
Telling Iorveth that he actually wants to play the hero this time won't go well, he imagines. Besides, why give him something else to worry about? So Astarion lies through his teeth: ]
[ "I always do" is decidedly not an "I promise", but Iorveth relaxes when he hears it. Maybe it says too much about him that it does, but he wouldn't know what. ]
Good. [ (A blind spot: Iorveth, having asked Astarion to stay, hasn't considered that Astarion would also want him to stay.) ] ...I might send a message to Waterdeep, as well. Though that damned tressym may intercept it.
[ Swallowing his pride to appeal to Gale, who is geographically the closest, despite him also being part of the loathed human race. Iorveth would kiss that frumpy wizard's feet if it meant saving Astarion from this catastrophic shitshow, really.
He glances at Astarion. At the quickly-forming bruise on his face, at his disheveled hair. Anger was always Iorveth's closest companion, but it's getting louder than it has in recent tendays. ]
Tara, you mean? [ Put some respect on her name! From one cat to another: ] Actually, I rather like her. She's feisty.
[ And he'd much rather her show up to save them with a well-timed fireball than Gale, who'd never let them hear the end of it, he's sure. Then he'd probably insist on inviting them back to his tower in Waterdeep, where he'd talk their ears off as if it's been any time at all since they saw each other last. (Then again, it would be an awful lot of fun to watch Iorveth verbally spar with Gale over a glass or two of wine. He's sure the Wizard of Waterdeep has a fabulous wine cellar.)
He worries his lip, then, trying not to look as fearful as he is. They've gotten out of worse jams before. Hells, they survived having illithid parasites in their brains. This should be a piece of cake, but— ]
Ah, no pressure, but perhaps you could find a way to send it sooner rather than later. [ His voice is light, breezy, performatively so. ] It's just that— well, the sun didn't feel so pleasant the first time.
[ A low huff of breath, at the mention of the sun. Humans, they can do something about－ grand, immovable forces of nature, not so much. ]
I'll have to find a bird, [ is a ridiculous thing to say when they're tied up and moments away from possibly being killed in a horrific and gruesome way, but, again: that's life.
They don't have time for that, though. If the sun comes up, Astarion is dead regardless of whether or not the humans decide to let him live. So－ ]
―Can you cast Acid Splash?
[ Rolling over on the cart, exposing his trussed-up hands behind his back. The acid won't eat at the rope entirely, and it'll hurt him more than it'll do permanent damage to the rope, but it'll be corrosive, and it'll help him wriggle out of his bonds with enough finessing. They don't have the "talk to Shadowheart later to fix it" option, but it's having fucked-up wrists as opposed to Astarion turning into bacon; Iorveth knows which one he'd choose. ]
[ Iorveth rolls over, and Astarion's eyes drift back to their captors, wary. They're sitting around the campfire, enjoying what's likely a stolen bottle of alcohol and recounting a grisly assault on an elven camp. The image of standing up, walking over, and kicking them into the fire one by one flits through his mind, but it doesn't hold his attention over Iorveth's question. ]
What? [ he hisses, red eyes narrowed to slits.
Laughing mirthlessly: ] Surely I misheard you, and you aren't asking me to burn you with acid. I mean, that would be insane!
An attempt, here, to look over his shoulder; it's difficult with how his arms are pulled so tautly behind him, shoulderblades risen near-painfully, but Iorveth semi-manages.
His simple reply to "that would be insane": ]
Did you think I wasn't insane?
[ Darling, sweetheart, love of his life. Of course he's a nutcase. ]
[ Petulant, he pouts. There's nothing in this world he'd like more than a tied-up and vulnerable Iorveth, yet these horrible men have found a way to sully even that. For one long moment, he looks down at Iorveth, eyes tracing the tightness of his shoulders down to the slowly but surely blooming rope burn across his wrists.
His voice is nearly inaudible when he whispers, ] Don't make a sound.
[ He shifts, angling his hands over Iorveth's bound wrists. Humorlessly, he notes that this is the closest they've come to holding hands in days. As his palms settle over the knots of rope, he says, quietly, ] Acido.
[ It's difficult to make the right hand gestures with his wrists tied behind his back, but he does his best, the muscles between his shoulder blades complaining as he flicks his fingers. For a moment, he isn't sure it worked. Then he hears it: the sound of acid eating through rope and flesh alike. ]
[ Collateral damage, he tells himself as his nerves light on fire from where acid bleeds into ropeburned skin. Pain, white-hot and blistering－ familiar, almost comfortingly so. This, Iorveth can bear without issue.
As suggested, he doesn't make a sound. Teeth grit, fingers curling into his palm, he stays silent, waiting until the rope gives way just enough for him to start shifting his wrists side to side. It's agonizing－ he saws raw flesh, making it tear and bleed－ but more satisfyingly, it's working.
Sweat beads on his brow. Physically, his body is screaming in protest; mentally, it's a chorus of yes yes yes. His arms relax, his shoulders pull forward again. He wiggles his blood-sticky, acid-burnt wrists, and feels them slip out of loosened knots.
An exhale, as he glances towards the soldiers. One of them mentions that they should get a move on if they want to get to Flotsam by noon, and another asks what the hurry is, the coin isn't going to grow legs and run away.
He whispers, voice ragged from holding his breath against the pain: ] Step away for a bit. They'll grow suspicious.
[ He should avert his eyes, but he can't. Memories rip through him of being ordered to burn his siblings, to carve their skin and bloody their faces. The sweet smell of Iorveth's blood mixed with the sour scent of acid makes him gag, and Astarion holds back the urge to vomit the blood he drank earlier, finally past 'feeling sick' fully into 'being sick'.
Step away, Iorveth says, and he wants to argue. He wants to stay and look at the damage he's done so that he can brand his brain with it. He also wants never to look at it again, so he absconds from the hay cart without another word, eyes downcast until he reaches the campfire. Then, as if a switch has just been flipped, he looks up, eyes keen. ]
Gentlemen! Did you hear that rustling over there?
[ He cants his head in the opposite direction from Iorveth, through the woods. ]
I'm not saying it's a group of wood elf guerrillas come to enact vengeance, but... weeellll, it would probably be prudent to check, don't you think?
[ The five men look up from where they're lounging, regarding Astarion with open suspicion. On one hand, it seems very convenient for a pack of guerrillas to be attacking them right now, but on the other, it would make sense for a pack of guerrillas to be attacking them right now. Caught between two diametrically opposing opinions, half of the men get up grudgingly to investigate ("you're gettin' a beating if it turns out you're lying, elf"), and the other half－ the two men who'd restrained Astarion earlier－ grab Astarion by the elbow and wrestle him onto the ground, holding him between their bodies like a novelty to gawk at.
"How'd that one-eyed freak get you to agree to work for him, anyway?" The man on Astarion's right leans in, his acrid breath tickling his ear. "You know what he is, right? All the shit he's done? Of all the vermin in the forests, he's the worst kind."
Meanwhile, said vermin is loosening the knots around his ankles, ignoring the searing pain running from his wrists to the base of his brain. He hears Astarion's theatrical distraction attempt, and smiles despite himself; it's impossible, how much he loves that stupid cat. ]
[ The sound and smell of Iorveth's wrists mixed with acid is still fresh in his mind, and the acrid aroma of this human's hot alcohol breath nearly makes him gag again. He swallows his disgust in service of continuing the distraction. If he's going to have hurt Iorveth, he had better make sure it was worth it. ]
No need to manhandle, boys--
[ His voice is airy, but there's a sharp undercurrent that suggests it bothers him more than he'd like to let on. In fact, being tugged around and roughly handled makes his chest feel tight. ]
It was an easy decision. I love money and I have loose morals.
[ The men chasing him are a different breed of human, Iorveth would say: delighting in the discomfort of elves, while regarding them as nothing more than strange animals occupying space in unilaterally-claimed human territory. They continue crowding Astarion, touching his ears and tipping his face in a way that would get most people slapped, or even worse―
―stabbed, which is what Iorveth is planning to do. Ankles finally freed (the men are still yapping on and on about how the Woodland Fox killed their cousins, how they lost an entire town because Iorveth took a torch to it, et cetera, ad infinitum), Iorveth slips, silent, from the cart he was deposited on, and slinks towards the man occupying Astarion's left.
"Guess none of this matters to a loose elf like you," he sneers. Iorveth has no context for this statement, but it makes him see red. Or, well. It makes the red he's been seeing even darker.
A mauled but still-deft hand finds a curved knife that one of the other man left behind; without hesitation, Iorveth makes his may behind the man occupying Astarion's left and plunges the weapon through the human's neck, back to front, until the blade protrudes and glints in firelight. ]
Don't speak, [ he snarls as he roughly pulls the knife out from the man's throat, letting him fall to the side with a wet gurgle and a flailing of thick limbs. The rest of the declaration, "just die", is put on reserve: Iorveth sets his sights on the second man, now scrambling onto his feet with a half-choked yell of alarm. ]
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"Might make it easier for us to have a spare. Heard Iorveth's pretty tight-lipped."
Ropes wrap around Astarion's wrists, mirroring Iorveth's state of captivity; the soldier behind Astarion tests the integrity of the bindings by gleefully pulling against them and breaking his victim's balance with the intention to get him on his knees.
Iorveth, meanwhile― he gets it. He bows his head in mock-defeat, hiding his overwhelming relief that they didn't slit Astarion's throat straight away. Clever, he thinks, and closes his eye against the inevitable jeering that follows his false gesture of despair.
"Alright, long-ears. We'll take you along, but any funny business and you're a dead elf."
More chatter: something about elves being so untrustworthy that they'll sell other elves out for a pittance, something else about taking them to the town of Flotsam, nestled in the forest east of Waterdeep. He feels fingers tangling in his hair, jerking his head up and forcing his face in Astarion's direction.
"Doesn't pay to be loyal to your race, now, does it?" Iorveth snarls in response, and headbutts the man under his broad chin. Fuck you. ]
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He's never missed the tadpole so much. No creature stirs inside his head, reaching out to telepathically comfort its cousin. There's only silence and distance. ]
Flotsam? [ he asks, attention piqued. ] How long will it take to get there? —Before daybreak, do you think?
[ "Typical high elf," laughs the man currently jerking him around by the rope around his wrists. "Making demands, even now." ]
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Great.
Iorveth holds Astarion's wide-eyed look with steady focus for the second he's allowed it; the men start dragging him towards their camp, and shove Astarion as a way to indicate that he should follow.
"We'll be there by noon," the fifth human (a passive observer of the unfolding events thus far) replies, leading the rest of the pack. "And before you get your hopes up, we won't be traveling on the main road. So don't expect some hero to cross our way to save you lot."
More jostling, more dragging. The camp that the two of them are taken to boils down to a fire and a few bedrolls, three horses tied to trees, and a small hay cart that they throw Iorveth onto.
"The Commandant'll pay us a pretty penny for bringing you two to him," the fifth man (possibly the leader of the gang) says to Astarion. "More, if you tell him what he wants to hear. So I'm expecting honesty out of you." ]
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He's staring at the campfire, wondering how bad of an idea it would be to start a forest fire as a diversion, when the leader addresses him. As he glances up, it takes everything in him not to spit again. Instead, he smiles mildly, deception coming back to him like riding a bike. ]
You can count on me. Cross my heart and hope to— well, I'd rather not die.
[ His eyes trail over to Iorveth, shoved unceremoniously onto a cart like cargo. ]
You know, I'm sure I could get more out of him if I could speak to him. He has a tendency of running that awful mouth when you get him going.
[ Another smile, as innocent as he can manage. ]
Besides, it's not like he can do anything with his hands tied.
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"What, are you his handler or something?"
Innuendo. His companions leer, though they lack any real heat behind their eyes to indicate that they perceive Astarion as anything but a strange novelty.
"Bet you handle him real well," another man says, feigning gagging as he strides over to Iorveth and starts loosening the straps of his bit. "Fine. But if he starts makin' a ruckus－"
Another serrated smile. "－We'll take his other eye." He pats the knife strapped to his hip, before waving a dismissive hand and walking back to his horse. ]
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Oh, I'll make sure he doesn't make a ruckus. [ Then, with a shrug of his shoulders: ] Or not. It's no difference to me if he keeps that eye.
[ In truth, he'd be beside himself. Iorveth has already been hurt enough by the removal of his first eye. Another mangling would damage him too much, possibly beyond repair. Then again, repair may not be worth thinking about when their lives could end in a matter of hours, not days.
As the humans converge around their campfire, eating bits of jerky from their packs, Astarion leans against the hay cart. ]
Darling, [ he says, voice lowered. He feels stupid now for snapping at Iorveth earlier. (It will happen again.) ]
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Gods, he hates humans so much. Hoarsely: ]
Astarion. [ Shifting on the cart, trying to regulate his emotions as much as he can manage. ] You need to run.
[ If he'd felt this way back when they were trying to kill Henselt, he feels it a hundredfold now. There's only so much than cunning can do in the face of five men who'd feel nothing if either of them dies; Iorveth isn't fine with dying like this, but he's at least ready for it. ]
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His eyes narrow, brow furrowed in annoyance. ]
Oh, good. Get all of your bad ideas out first.
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[ To the tune of "listen to me, dumbass." It's been a small age since he's used this tone with Astarion, and it's coming back into play in the worst situation possible. Of all the times and places for the elves to start fighting, of course it has to be now.
Iorveth narrows his own eye, retaliatory. ]
Use your invisibility spell. No matter what they promise, they will kill you if you don't run now.
[ Uncharacteristically fatalistic of him; he doesn't want to think that it's the fear of Astarion dying that's speaking, but it very well might be. ]
You've earned your freedom. Don't waste it here, you fool.
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[ Gods, he's never been so angry in his life. His face slowly turns red, fang pressing so deeply into his lower lip that it cuts the skin of his mouth. He hardly notices. How dare Iorveth even think to take himself away from him, he thinks immaturely. And because of what, a few dumb humans? ]
If you want me to survive, then I suppose you'll just have to come up with something better. [ Emotional blackmail, he knows. ] Whatever your fate, I plan to share it.
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In that moment of breathless agony, Iorveth stares at Astarion with self-imposed blankness. Allowing any sort of emotion to bleed through his cracks would be to bare fangs at Astarion, which he won't allow; any accusations along the lines of don't you know how it feels would be comical to the point of parody― the irony is that of course Astarion knows. Astarion knows the shape of agony more than anyone.
A beat, and the miles of distance that Iorveth shoves between them start to shrink. Rather, he allows them to. His throat bobs, and air whistles through his teeth. ]
Stupid. [ Softly, with no real edge. ] Stupid. You're such a fool.
[ It sounds a little like "I love you". Iorveth sinks sideways, resting his head against the scratchy wood of the hay cart. ]
There are elves in the forests near Flotsam. I could send them a message via bird, if the humans don't gag me again. [ His tone is neutral, flat. It's a long shot; not everyone is willing to help a known criminal, even for the sake of elf justice. ]
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They won't, not if I say that you're telling me valuable information. Coin breeds stupidity.
[ He doesn't know that, not really, but Iorveth has given him an inch and he's delusionally willing to take a mile. There's nothing left for him to do besides hope, even if it's a little detached from reality.
Astarion pauses before adding, softly, ] You didn't doubt me, even though I said I'd sell you out.
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I've given you my heart. I trust you with my life.
[ Strangely naive of him, perhaps. There it is again, his bad habit of putting all of his eggs in one basket and being disappointed if and when they come back a mess: yes, he didn't doubt that Astarion was bluffing. Yes, he didn't consider what would happen if Astarion were planning on betraying him. Yes, he would have been devastated if Astarion actually did betray him. Another painful lesson to learn on top of all the others in his life.
That said: ] Astarion. [ More firmly this time: ] I'll not lie down and accept death so easily. But if things go south, promise me you'll look out for yourself, first and foremost.
[ Something he'd said before, warm and drunk and lovesick in a bathhouse: that he hadn't wanted Astarion to play hero. Some part of that still holds. ]
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Telling Iorveth that he actually wants to play the hero this time won't go well, he imagines. Besides, why give him something else to worry about? So Astarion lies through his teeth: ]
I always do.
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Good. [ (A blind spot: Iorveth, having asked Astarion to stay, hasn't considered that Astarion would also want him to stay.) ] ...I might send a message to Waterdeep, as well. Though that damned tressym may intercept it.
[ Swallowing his pride to appeal to Gale, who is geographically the closest, despite him also being part of the loathed human race. Iorveth would kiss that frumpy wizard's feet if it meant saving Astarion from this catastrophic shitshow, really.
He glances at Astarion. At the quickly-forming bruise on his face, at his disheveled hair. Anger was always Iorveth's closest companion, but it's getting louder than it has in recent tendays. ]
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[ And he'd much rather her show up to save them with a well-timed fireball than Gale, who'd never let them hear the end of it, he's sure. Then he'd probably insist on inviting them back to his tower in Waterdeep, where he'd talk their ears off as if it's been any time at all since they saw each other last. (Then again, it would be an awful lot of fun to watch Iorveth verbally spar with Gale over a glass or two of wine. He's sure the Wizard of Waterdeep has a fabulous wine cellar.)
He worries his lip, then, trying not to look as fearful as he is. They've gotten out of worse jams before. Hells, they survived having illithid parasites in their brains. This should be a piece of cake, but— ]
Ah, no pressure, but perhaps you could find a way to send it sooner rather than later. [ His voice is light, breezy, performatively so. ] It's just that— well, the sun didn't feel so pleasant the first time.
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I'll have to find a bird, [ is a ridiculous thing to say when they're tied up and moments away from possibly being killed in a horrific and gruesome way, but, again: that's life.
They don't have time for that, though. If the sun comes up, Astarion is dead regardless of whether or not the humans decide to let him live. So－ ]
―Can you cast Acid Splash?
[ Rolling over on the cart, exposing his trussed-up hands behind his back. The acid won't eat at the rope entirely, and it'll hurt him more than it'll do permanent damage to the rope, but it'll be corrosive, and it'll help him wriggle out of his bonds with enough finessing. They don't have the "talk to Shadowheart later to fix it" option, but it's having fucked-up wrists as opposed to Astarion turning into bacon; Iorveth knows which one he'd choose. ]
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What? [ he hisses, red eyes narrowed to slits.
Laughing mirthlessly: ] Surely I misheard you, and you aren't asking me to burn you with acid. I mean, that would be insane!
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An attempt, here, to look over his shoulder; it's difficult with how his arms are pulled so tautly behind him, shoulderblades risen near-painfully, but Iorveth semi-manages.
His simple reply to "that would be insane": ]
Did you think I wasn't insane?
[ Darling, sweetheart, love of his life. Of course he's a nutcase. ]
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This isn't the way I imagined having you tied up.
[ Petulant, he pouts. There's nothing in this world he'd like more than a tied-up and vulnerable Iorveth, yet these horrible men have found a way to sully even that. For one long moment, he looks down at Iorveth, eyes tracing the tightness of his shoulders down to the slowly but surely blooming rope burn across his wrists.
His voice is nearly inaudible when he whispers, ] Don't make a sound.
[ He shifts, angling his hands over Iorveth's bound wrists. Humorlessly, he notes that this is the closest they've come to holding hands in days. As his palms settle over the knots of rope, he says, quietly, ] Acido.
[ It's difficult to make the right hand gestures with his wrists tied behind his back, but he does his best, the muscles between his shoulder blades complaining as he flicks his fingers. For a moment, he isn't sure it worked. Then he hears it: the sound of acid eating through rope and flesh alike. ]
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As suggested, he doesn't make a sound. Teeth grit, fingers curling into his palm, he stays silent, waiting until the rope gives way just enough for him to start shifting his wrists side to side. It's agonizing－ he saws raw flesh, making it tear and bleed－ but more satisfyingly, it's working.
Sweat beads on his brow. Physically, his body is screaming in protest; mentally, it's a chorus of yes yes yes. His arms relax, his shoulders pull forward again. He wiggles his blood-sticky, acid-burnt wrists, and feels them slip out of loosened knots.
An exhale, as he glances towards the soldiers. One of them mentions that they should get a move on if they want to get to Flotsam by noon, and another asks what the hurry is, the coin isn't going to grow legs and run away.
He whispers, voice ragged from holding his breath against the pain: ] Step away for a bit. They'll grow suspicious.
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Step away, Iorveth says, and he wants to argue. He wants to stay and look at the damage he's done so that he can brand his brain with it. He also wants never to look at it again, so he absconds from the hay cart without another word, eyes downcast until he reaches the campfire. Then, as if a switch has just been flipped, he looks up, eyes keen. ]
Gentlemen! Did you hear that rustling over there?
[ He cants his head in the opposite direction from Iorveth, through the woods. ]
I'm not saying it's a group of wood elf guerrillas come to enact vengeance, but... weeellll, it would probably be prudent to check, don't you think?
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"How'd that one-eyed freak get you to agree to work for him, anyway?" The man on Astarion's right leans in, his acrid breath tickling his ear. "You know what he is, right? All the shit he's done? Of all the vermin in the forests, he's the worst kind."
Meanwhile, said vermin is loosening the knots around his ankles, ignoring the searing pain running from his wrists to the base of his brain. He hears Astarion's theatrical distraction attempt, and smiles despite himself; it's impossible, how much he loves that stupid cat. ]
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No need to manhandle, boys--
[ His voice is airy, but there's a sharp undercurrent that suggests it bothers him more than he'd like to let on. In fact, being tugged around and roughly handled makes his chest feel tight. ]
It was an easy decision. I love money and I have loose morals.
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―stabbed, which is what Iorveth is planning to do. Ankles finally freed (the men are still yapping on and on about how the Woodland Fox killed their cousins, how they lost an entire town because Iorveth took a torch to it, et cetera, ad infinitum), Iorveth slips, silent, from the cart he was deposited on, and slinks towards the man occupying Astarion's left.
"Guess none of this matters to a loose elf like you," he sneers. Iorveth has no context for this statement, but it makes him see red. Or, well. It makes the red he's been seeing even darker.
A mauled but still-deft hand finds a curved knife that one of the other man left behind; without hesitation, Iorveth makes his may behind the man occupying Astarion's left and plunges the weapon through the human's neck, back to front, until the blade protrudes and glints in firelight. ]
Don't speak, [ he snarls as he roughly pulls the knife out from the man's throat, letting him fall to the side with a wet gurgle and a flailing of thick limbs. The rest of the declaration, "just die", is put on reserve: Iorveth sets his sights on the second man, now scrambling onto his feet with a half-choked yell of alarm. ]
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iorveth, bashing a man's head in: it ain't much but it's honest work
iorveth, killing someone: man life is just so hard
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