essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 'I did what I had to.' Yes, Astarion understands what that feels like. It's been his mantra for the past two centuries. A young, promising woman lured to her doom? I did what I had to. One of his siblings, begging for mercy as he tortured them on Cazador's orders? I did what I had to. Every lie he's ever told? I did what I had to. ]

Crazy for you, perhaps, [ he lilts with an impish grin, nudging their noses together in a way he'd vehemently deny doing if pressed.

Then, with a sigh, he pushes Iorveth forward. It's a little forceful, but not unfriendly. Like a rambunctious puppy roughhousing with its favorite companion. ]

Go on, before you convince me to push you against a tree and have my way with you.

[ Astarion should care more about who he's decided to ally himself with, and what that person is known for doing, but there's at least one thing that even his detractors would agree about Iorveth: he has never betrayed someone he considers a comrade. Astarion, in that sense, remains safe.

Effectively shoved, he realigns himself back towards their previous trajectory towards the now-abandoned campfire. Not without a quick Cure Wounds, however－ a featherlight touch of soothing cold against the bloomed bruise on Astarion's face. The effects are superficial (is it worth casting a spell when it only recovers, like, 2 HP!!!!), but better than nothing. ]

Tempting, [ because it is, ] but I need to rest.

[ Finally admitting it. His strides are getting less sure by the second, weighed down by exhaustion finally rearing its ugly head now that the adrenaline is gone; his wrists are still a raw, bloody mess, and he must be a mess of bruises under his clothes. Trancing won't mend him, but at least he'll feel less like he's running on empty.

When they get to the abandoned campsite, most of their belongings are, in fact, there. Their bedrolls are still wound and lashed to their tent-packs, their supplies set aside near the haycart that Iorveth was deposited in. Iorveth reaches for the packs with their tents inside first, testing to see that nothing's been damaged. ]

We've lost a day of travel, but it's preferable to being dead.

[ Astarion wrestles the pack out of Iorveth's hands, dropping it on the ground and unearthing the tent and its poles. There's little he hates more than pitching a tent, but Iorveth is right; he needs to rest. If this campsite was good enough for their attackers, it should be good enough for them.

Besides, he'd rather the reason they set up camp now be Iorveth's exhaustion and not that he has to hide from the sun.

He lays the tent out on the ground and gets to work diligently connecting the poles. Honestly, he's never been very good at this. He usually bribed Gale into magicking his tent up. ]

Was my face so ghastly you needed to waste a spell on it?

[ Iorveth should have cast that on himself. Stupid. ]

Find some ointment, at least, and I'll tenderly patch your wounds.

[ Gods, Astarion really is bad at pitching tents. Iorveth watches the clumsy attempt at stretching the tarp across the crooked tent poles, and intervenes for a few minutes before giving up on the task altogether. His wrists are starting to protest the extra movement, and it's not like they need their sleeping space to be beautiful as long as it does its job, which is to block the sun.

Tossing an extra layer of fabric over the top as a cautionary measure, Iorveth rummages inside their other supply pack for a tin of ointment (for blisters, not acid burns) and bandages, and burrows into their shelter to assess his wounds. They look ugly― patches of raw, bloody skin coiled around his wrists, almost like poorly-molted snakeskin― but the burns haven't sunk too deep. If they find a healer within the next few days, he's sure the marks won't scar.

He's lifting the hem of his shirt to check the foot-shaped bruise spreading against his side when Astarion inevitably joins him inside the tent; a hum, and he smooths the fabric back over his torso. ]

Took you long enough, [ is a tired tease. He beckons for Astarion to nest next to him in their small space, and offers Astarion his hands. ] A pity you're here to bandage me, and not to bind me.

Another time, [ Astarion promises, although it's really more of a treat for him than it is for Iorveth. He'd love nothing more than to tie Iorveth up and empty that too-full mind of his, but not when he's this level of exhausted, and not in some dingy old tent that's lumpy and misshapen due to his poor attempt to pitch it. It doesn't really set the mood. ]

You've been bound enough for the day, I fear.

[ A scowl crosses his face, but it's brief and fleeting. No need to think on unpleasantness when revenge has already been doled out. Sat beside Iorveth, feet tucked underneath him to make the most of this small space, he pops open the tin and gathers a generous amount on his fingers. He's no cleric, not even close, but he tries his best regardless, applying the cool, slick ointment over the raw skin of Iorveth's wrists with as light a touch as he can manage. ]

This will sting, but not as badly as the acid, I imagine.

[ Iorveth watches Astarion's kaleidoscope of expressions in silence, holding his hands out with the sort of obedience he's never once shown outside of these private moments. Poor Shadowheart certainly never got a taste of it, what with Iorveth heckling her the entire time while she patched him up.

The light friction against inflamed and broken skin hurts, but not nearly enough to inspire Iorveth to flinch. A part of him is aware that Astarion never had the opportunity to use his hands for healing, so he savors the clumsy but good-intentioned ministrations while he can. ]

It was my idea, [ he reminds, about the acid. ] ...We survived, thanks to you.

[ Because Iorveth knows that there wasn't a single chance that those soldiers would have done anything for Astarion once the sun came up; they would have put two and two together, and relished watching Astarion burn.

His expression twists, but only briefly. A moment later, he opens his mouth again. ] Still. I'm sorry that I made you do it.

[ Astarion tilts his head for a moment, expression deliberately opaque. No one's ever been sorry for making him do something before. To be the recipient of someone's apology feels strange and vulnerable and he hasn't the slightest idea how to respond; habit would dictate spitting out something like I don't need your pity, but that doesn't feel quite right. His eyes glance up at Iorveth's face for a short-lived moment before they focus on his reddened wrists again, hands unspooling a long strip of bandage. ]

Just know that I'd never take pleasure in hurting you.

[ He wraps the bandage around Iorveth's wrist, tying it off with deft fingers before repeating the process on the other side. ]

At least, not in any way that you wouldn't find enjoyable, [ he adds, because Iorveth is a freak. ]

[ Twin bandages on both wrists: almost an aesthetic, if he wasn't actually injured. Iorveth waits until Astarion finishes to test how everything feels, flexing fingers and slowly turning his hand around a few times to gauge his range of motion. ]

You know me too well.

[ Regarding Iorveth's potential to enjoy a little punishment now and again. Less about the pain and more to do with having someone he can entrust himself with so fully, but now is probably not the time to start negotiating kinks.

Instead, he closes his eye. Slumps against Astarion's side, the way he promised he would. ]

I don't deserve you. [ Tired and angry to the point of near-numbness; he still can't believe Astarion hasn't run screaming for the hills. His voice is low, dry. ] ―Mm. No one deserves you.

[ Everyone belongs to themselves, etc. With that correction out of the way: ] ...We'll start moving again at nightfall. If we move fast, we should arrive at Flotsam before sunrise― they won't welcome wood elves warmly, but they'll be more lenient towards high elves. You won't have a problem finding a room at an inn.

Edited 2025-01-18 00:54 (UTC)

And where will you rest, outside on the street?

[ Astarion shakes his head before letting it fall against Iorveth's, temples touching. He'd never say he misses the brainworm, but there are some drawbacks to its loss. The sun, for one; inability to crawl inside Iorveth's mind, for another. Sometimes he longs for that feeling of psionic connection, something he chalks up to the aftereffects of infection. ]

We'll have no trouble finding a room. You forget how terribly charming I am.

[ And how cocky. ]

But you needn't worry that pretty little head of yours. That's a problem for tomorrow. [ His lifetime motto. Why worry about something that he can put off until later? ] For now, you only need to trance.

[ He was planning on climbing up the wall and sneaking into Astarion's room through the window like a deranged squirrel, but that is a problem for the upcoming night― one of many. For now, he relents to the suggestion that he trance; he's needed to for a while now, and so he sinks, further and further into that murky abyss of half-memory and half-meditation...

...where he doesn't actually rest. Not exactly. His mind keeps moving even while his body stays limp against Astarion's shoulder, temple to temple, hand touching hand. His version of a nightmare is merely a return to something he's already lived, the sense-memory of manacles and rot-covered stone, of sleeping next to cooling bodies of elves he'd been raised with.

A lot. He jerks back "awake" with a sharp intake of air, disoriented in a way he hasn't been in ages, humiliated and enraged by the psychic damage he's done to himself; his breathing is uneven, a whistle through his too-tight throat as he tries to gather his bearings and realign his current when-where-whys.

The sun is still high in the sky. He can see a sliver of light through the paper-thin crack in their tentflap, and shifts away from it, instinctively pulling his arm around Astarion, who is―

―cold. Pale. Of course he is, Iorveth reminds himself: Astarion is dead, he's a vampire, he hasn't been alive in two entire centuries. Still, Iorveth's trance-bleary mind connects the wrong dots, makes his breathing more ragged, quickens his already-rabbiting pulse. ]

Astarion, [ he croaks. Entirely irrational; he already hates himself for this moment of unearned anxiety, feels profoundly ashamed. But he shakes Astarion again anyway, his grip around his companion's elbow tightening almost to the point of discomfort. ] ―Astarion?

Ow, [ is his first complaint upon being rudely shaken into consciousness. It's odd: for centuries, trancing was no escape from the horrors of waking life, but ever since he crawled into Iorveth's bed that night they murdered that king, it's become more and more peaceful. He still has his moments of fitfulness, of course, and likely always will, but it turns out that it's much more pleasant to reminisce on the past when good things have actually happened to you.

So he's a little annoyed at being woken out of his reverie, especially in such a forceful way. He opens one eye, instinctively focusing in on the thin slice of light invading their tent. Unthinkingly, he shifts away from it. ]

I'm delicate, you know, [ he complains further as he opens his other eye, turning to glance at Iorveth. It's still light outside, and he can't fathom why Iorveth would wake him when he still has to be confined to this tent. It irritates him a little, actually, to be reminded yet again of his shortcomings, but any annoyance softens at the look on Iorveth's face. ]

What's the matter, my love?

[ His head is still spinning, clarity still foggy from poor rest and his current uneven breathing. Lack of oxygen to the brain, Iorveth notes with clinical detachment, but finds he can't do anything to immediately correct himself.

What is the look on his face? Panic? Fear? Something he doesn't want Astarion to see, probably. He can't hear Astarion's voice over the roar of his own pulse in his ears, but he registers that reluctant opening of red eyes and the annoyed shift under his too-tight grip.

Alive, Iorveth tells himself. (For a given value of alive, but still.) Alive. Alive.

He shakes his head. "It's fine," he tries to say, but it only comes out as a short exhale, a vague sound that gets caught in the back of his throat. Fuck. All that tightly-kept self-control, scattered by one bad encounter and a night of bad rest. Love has made him soft, apparently― he tries to inhale to middling results, and shakes his head again as his grip slides down to Astarion's sleeve. ]

Nothing, [ he manages, finally. ] A dream.

[ A not-so-subtle tremor, like aftershocks of an earthquake. Iorveth shakes his head again, a third time, and scoots backwards in their small space. ]

[ 'Nothing'. Astarion raises an eyebrow. It obviously isn't nothing, but he understands the reluctance to give voice to one's vulnerabilities. It's just that, well, he would have liked to think that Iorveth could be vulnerable with him. He's certainly shown Iorveth his soft underbelly enough excruciating, humiliating times.

Physicality has always been his method of choice for making people feel the way he wants them to feel, although comfort is a far cry from his usual manipulations. Still, he reaches out to draw Iorveth back to him, arms wrapping around him in an embrace.

It feels strange, a little awkward. He's not sure he's ever initiated a hug in his life. Regardless, he lets one of his hands smooth over Iorveth's back, rubbing comfortingly. It feels good when Iorveth does this sort of thing to him, so logic would dictate that it would feel good the other way around, too. ]

A bad dream, I gather. Tell me.

[ A low breath, in and out. For a moment, he steels himself against the sickening idea that the coolness of Astarion's skin might actually feel unpleasant in his current state, and tenses when he's pulled back inwards― but the idea remains just an idea, and he relaxes into the reality of the familiar weight and shape of Astarion, and how welcome he feels compared to the lingering chill of his memories.

Tell me rankles just a bit ("I'm trying not to burden you with this bullshit"), but he also knows how he would react if the tables were turned, so. Another inhale, and he focuses his attention on the slow slide of a palm against his back. "Comforting" is the correct term for it. ]

...The past, [ he finally offers by way of explanation, to the tune of "you should know how it is." ] We were marching― I was chained to another elf.

[ No context. A clumsy effort at obliging "tell me", which is rare for Iorveth― he likes to choose his words more carefully than this. ]

He died of exhaustion and infection sometime during the day. The humans only watched and laughed. I spent the next few days with the corpse still dragging by my side. Cold, rotting―

[ A humorless laugh, and he shakes his head for the millionth time. ] ―A mortifying thing, for one bad night to have made me remember again. ...Worse still, that I let myself mistake you for being dead.

[ Again, Astarion is dead, but. He knows he doesn't have to say that. ]

I am dead.

[ In case Iorveth somehow forgot. Astarion sure didn't. He never considered that his undeath might be unpleasant for Iorveth in ways beyond the superficial; he nearly asks as much, 'is it bothersome' on the tip of his tongue, but it sounds insecure and vaguely pathetic. Iorveth shouldn't have to put up with that right now, so he keeps his mouth shut on the topic, only rubbing his hands together behind Iorveth's back to try to warm them to something approaching living temperature. ]

But you needn't worry about any of that anymore.

[ Easier said than done, he knows. Sometimes, he still has a pang of fear strike him at the thought of Cazador coming for him. He'll be so mad at me, he often thinks, before he can remind himself that Cazador is a mangled heap desiccating underneath his palace. ]

We'll kill every last person who would dare harm us.

[ How quickly he aligns himself with terrorism. ]

[ Another moment, to find his equilibrium. Easier now, with the assurance that Astarion is dead-but-not-really. After the lingering silence passes, Iorveth finally scrapes together enough of himself to laugh. ]

And to think, [ because it's ridiculous now, in hindsight, ] that Wyll worried for me when he caught on to my feelings for you.

[ Actually, the truth of the matter was that he probably went to Iorveth and Astarion both with his warnings ("have you thought this through???", essentially), but. You know. Iorveth rests his forehead on Astarion's shoulder, looking at the ground between their awkwardly tangled legs. ]

Lae'zel and Shadowheart are tending to chickens on their farms, while we promise to kill our enemies. [ Another laugh, this time with a bit more conviction. ] Your prospects are grim, beloved.

[ With no small amount of disgust: ] I don't want to tend to chickens on a farm.

[ He wants to watch anyone who'd threaten their safety die screaming. He wants to lie down at night with the knowledge that no one will ever dare hurt either of them ever again. Surely that can't be too much to ask.

His mouth twists in displeasure, and he adds, ] But if you don't appreciate my promises, I can always stop making them.

[ A low sound, close to a hm. ]

I appreciate them.

[ Which is the problem, probably. Iorveth likes that Astarion wants the same things he does, despite everyone else in the world warning against them. Iorveth wants Astarion to stay, despite how ill-advised staying is.

He curls, fingers fisting in Astarion's shirt. ]

Stay, [ is softer than he wanted it to sound. But the hammering anxiety of losing Astarion in a dream is still fresh in his mind, and Iorveth doesn't want to think of it again. ] Astarion. Please.

[ Astarion glances at the sliver of light still poking through the tent flap. ]

If you haven't noticed, I can't exactly leave.

[ But that's not what Iorveth means, or at least he doesn't think it is. He's said it before, that word—'stay'—and Astarion gets the impression that it's loaded, that it means something to Iorveth, even if it's difficult for Astarion to understand. Because of course he has no intention of doing anything but staying for as long as Iorveth allows him to, so much so that the idea of being asked to stay is laughably redundant.

He pets Iorveth's hair, uncertain how to comfort someone who seems to be experiencing an awful range of emotions. Hells, he can't even comfort himself. He's a terrible choice for consolation.

An attempt at lightening the mood: ] This isn't what I was hoping you would beg me for.

[ An awkward position for Astarion to be put in, Iorveth realizes, having to hover over a weird elf trying to moderate his weird feelings. He doesn't want Astarion to have to deal with the fallout of his past hangups－ after all, it's demonstrably not Astarion's fault that Iorveth has issues－ so he lets himself have the comfort of those careful fingers in his hair for a few more seconds before he straightens up, uncurling his grip and smoothing over wrinkled fabric.

His next inhale is measured, and with conviction. The attempt to lighten the mood lands; Iorveth relaxes, and moves to close their tent flap more properly. ]

Assuredly, I also wished to reserve "please" for a better moment.

[ Returning back to Astarion's side, he flops down on the ground this time and sees if he can get away with using Astarion's knees as a (hard) pillow. Only temporary; he'll move before Astarion's legs start falling asleep. ]

...Once we finish our business in Flotsam, we can stop by Waterdeep for a few days. Not to see the wizard, but to stay somewhere with clean sheets for once.

[ Like, they could visit Gale. Or Tara, whichever Astarion would prefer. ]

[ Visiting Gale wouldn't be so bad, actually, but Astarion would never admit as much. He hates that some arrogant, verbose, far too earnest wizard somehow tricked him into not just tolerating but actually liking him; when he'd thought Gale might really blow himself up for their sakes, he'd felt— sad. The knowledge that he might never again tune out one of Gale's lectures on the flora of the Underdark or supposed Githyanki customs had made him morose.

Of course, he verbalizes none of this. Instead: ]

The City of Splendors? It does sound like the place for me.

[ Grand, influential, cosmopolitan. Exactly the sort of place he belongs. And— ] Perhaps we might pay a visit to that [ he waves a hand ] wizarding academy Gale has gone on about. They could be helpful to us.

[ 'To me', he means, really. ]

[ Funny, how liking Gale is kind of a universal feeling known to everyone but Gale himself. Iorveth looks up at Astarion from where he's reclined, his toes skimming just against the edge of their cramped tent. ]

Gods, [ he murmurs. ] I can't begin to imagine being in a room full of so-called intellectuals.

[ Translation: "could you imagine us having to deal with a bunch of nerds????" Iorveth is the meanest person on Toril. ]

I fear I'd become boring by osmosis.

[ Astarion laughs, soft and under his breath, as he runs his fingers through Iorveth's hair — more affectionate now, rather than comforting. ]

You're many things, my love, but 'boring' will never be one of them.

[ Even when Astarion had first met him and the mere thought of his self-righteous elf crusade had inspired irritation, he was never bored. How could he be? Iorveth was impossibly vexing from the beginning. Now, of course, he's still vexing, but somehow Astarion finds he likes being vexed by him. Again, problematic, but not boring. ]

But I thought they might have some insight into my, ah, problem.

[ If anyone would, wouldn't it be a group of 'so-called intellectuals'? Perhaps they won't have an answer, but they might be able to point them in the right direction to find one. ]

—But that's a thought for another day. Rest, darling.

[ The sun being their enemy is a very immediate problem, all things considered (what the fuck could Iorveth even have done if those horrid humans decided to toss Astarion out in daylight and watch him burn???), but he obliges the idea of it being an issue for another day. He's tired in a way he hasn't felt in a while, and so he rolls off Astarion's knee and flops onto the grass, beckoning for Astarion to join him in being horizontal.

If Astarion obliges, he'll find himself being tucked under one arm, held to Iorveth's chest with just enough wiggle room that he can squirm out if the embrace starts feeling a bit Much. That's how Iorveth eventually slips back into his trance state, comfortable with that Astarion-shaped weight sprawled halfway on top of him, grounding him in the present so that his meditations don't take him too far back into the past again.

Day wanes, and night falls. Sunset has come and gone by the time Iorveth groggily comes back to, which means that they both have to drag their weary bodies from forest to caravan path back into river-flanked forest as quickly as they can; luckily enough, they find one of the now-dead soldiers' horses still lingering by the camp, and Iorveth's wood elf charisma allows them to convince it to carry their bags, if not allow Astarion to climb on its back.

It's a grueling trek, but a few hours later, they make it to their destination: a somewhat ramshackle merchant town built near and, in some places, directly onto the wide river that runs north to south along it. The side of the town that faces the forest is fortified by a cobblestone wall, presumably to keep unwanted neighbors from coming in; the bare-boned residences closest to said wall are largely occupied by the few non-humans that have been granted sanctuary－ dwarves and gnomes, primarily－ and the closer Iorveth and Astarion get to the river and its commerce, the nicer (and more structurally sound) the buildings become.

Most of the town is still asleep by the time they arrive. A handful of fishermen trying to beat the morning rush stare at the two strangers warily, but say nothing despite noting their pointed ears.

Iorveth adjusts his eyepatch over his broken face. ] Someone might recognize me.

[ Astarion's used to being stared at; it comes with the territory of being pretty, or so he's always thought. These stares feel decidedly less complimentary, though, and he frowns in response, narrowed eyes glinting with the dim glow of street lanterns. Unthinkingly, his hand worms its way into the crook of Iorveth's elbow, a protective gesture. ]

I'm sure there's plenty of one-eyed wood elves around, [ he says, voice forcibly airy.

One of the fishermen meets his eye with a particularly mean scowl. Astarion tugs on Iorveth's arm. ]

We should find somewhere to stay before the sun comes up. [ A pause, before throwing a sidelong glance at the horse. ] —And somewhere to put this awful beast, I suppose.

[ They could just take their things and leave it to its own devices, but that feels strangely... unpleasant. ]

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