[ 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. ]
[ 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 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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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.
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ The awful beast in question nudges Astarion with her nose, unwilling to let an undead creature on her back but strangely willing to nibble on his shoulder whenever he presents the opportunity. Iorveth watches the mare huff and snort near Astarion's ear, and tries not to smile at the audacity. ]
An inn with a stable, then. There should be one or two.
[ They walk on, arm in arm, away from the fishermens' bared teeth and narrowed eyes, sidestepping a few drowsy-eyed dwarves carrying a stack of chopped wood. Even they give Iorveth a once-over despite being non-humans, noting the missing eye with a glimmer of recognition. "Is that...?", unspoken.
Iorveth walks a little faster. The inn they eventually find is the biggest one in town, only because it shares its premises with the town brothel: a symbiotic relationship. The nature of the establishment ensures that the proprietress is awake even at this ungodly hour, and she greets the two elves with the sort of distant politeness she reserves for people she doesn't strictly want to have near her, but will endure for the sake of coin.
Here, too, Iorveth gets a once-over. "Where'd you two come from?", she asks Astarion, clearly preferring to address him instead of the scary guy with the covered face. ]
[ He doesn't like the way the proprietress looks at them, and especially not the way she looks at Iorveth. It takes everything in him not to scowl and say none of your business, and by the way, that shade of lipstick looks ghastly on you — they need a place to stay, after all, and it would be best not to start trouble right before the sun rises. ]
We aren't from around here, [ he's quick to say, as if that might ward off any suspicion. ] Never even been to this part of the continent, actually! We're Cormyrean, if you must know.
[ The woman raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised that someone who claims to be from the heartlands of the continent has travelled all this way. He ignores it, smiling pleasantly. ]
We're on our way to visit family in the Dales. Isn't that right, darling?
[ The story is a hard sell and it's doubtful as to whether the innkeep will believe then for even half a minute, but Iorveth corroborates with a not-quite-emphatic: ]
Distant relatives.
[ Since, you know, they've never been to this part of the continent, so clearly this side of the family wasn't worth visiting until now. Again, a hard sell, but coin is the great equalizer: before she can comment on inconsistencies in the elves' story, Iorveth slides over what she deems, ultimately, to be enough gold to shut her up for at least the next 48 hours. She pockets the money, and exchanges it for a little iron key "for the upstairs room at the end of the hall― don't turn the corner, you'll need to pay extra for that privilege".
Iorveth turns to leave, but before Astarion can follow suit, the innkeep reaches over and closes her fingers over his wrist. She leans in, auburn hair tied up and away from her made-up face, the scent of her lavender perfume having faded to an unpleasant sting of something that smells almost like baby powder.
"Our Commandant is looking for one-eyed wood elves," she murmurs under her breath, intending the statement to be for Astarion's ears only. ]
[ The unasked for touch makes him tense, but he doesn't yank his arm away no matter how much he wants to. Instead, he schools his features into something performatively mild, almost uninterested in what she's said. He tilts his head, eyebrows raising ever so slightly as if she's just told him a small fun fact. ]
Is he?
[ Damn Iorveth for being so distinctive. ]
Well, my sweet Edgar lost his eye to an owlbear attack. You know, he didn't even try to defend himself! That man wouldn't hurt a fly.
[ Said as if he didn't just watch Iorveth murder a few men a day ago. He smiles charmingly, pearly whites on display. ]
Best of luck to your commander. I do hope he finds the one-eyed wood elf he's looking for.
[ He skitters away after that, catching up to Iorveth to loop their arms together, the perfect picture of a Cormyrean couple travelling to visit the distant in-laws. Astarion leans in, voice lowered. ]
Far be it from me to rush perfection, but the quicker we're in and out, the better.
[ What does a Cormyrean couple look like? Iorveth follows Astarion's lead, taking care to lead him away from the front desk and up to the stairs with graceful deference.
At the suggestion that they try to expedite their task at hand: ] Or I get a new face.
[ A joke, bone-dry. ]
The fastest way to depose the current human in power would be to burn him and the entire town down. Unfortunately, this place is home to non-humans－ not to mention that the neighboring forest would burn down with it.
[ Moving up the stairs, down the hall. The key they've been given slots neatly into the room at the end of the hall, as promised, and the door swings open to reveal a modestly-sized space with one large bed. A normal-enough room, if not for the squirrel head mounted on the wall next to the lone window.
Iorveth grimaces, and closes the door behind him. ] I'll have to find a way to get to the Commandant. Preferably in private.
[ A stark difference between Iorveth and Astarion: he couldn't care less if some strangers or trees burned down in the process of killing their enemies. Iorveth cares, though, so he has no choice but to table the idea. (It's surprising, really, which one of them is the terrorist.) It's plan B, maybe. He'd hate to upset Iorveth, but they do need to rid the world of this Commandant one way or another.
He tosses his pack on the floor when they enter, putting his hands on his hips and staring disapprovingly at the mounted woodland creature. Ugh, tacky. After a long moment of judgment, he flops down onto the bed. Not exactly fancy, but better than sleeping on the ground. ]
Does he favor men, do you think?
[ Can't teach an old dog new tricks. Seduction is really just habit now. ]
[ The flattest look Iorveth can muster here, as he sets down his pack and weapons. Like, he gets it, but still－
－unimpressed, he sweeps over to Astarion where he's reclined on the bed, and flicks him between his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. ]
Even if he does, [ enunciating each syllable, ] do you think I'd willingly allow him to lay even a finger on you?
[ Not even a real question. Maybe 300 years from now, Astarion will be more comfortable with the thought of using seduction as a technique to get what he wants, but now? Not so much, Iorveth thinks. ]
Don't be stupid. I'd offer myself before I offered you, fool.
[ Another light flick, though this time he soothes over the little red spot with his thumb. ]
[ Astarion pouts in response to being flicked, but doesn't protest. How could he? It's not like he wants to seduce some unbearable man who wants Iorveth dead. He doesn't even want to stand in the same room as him without stabbing him into unrecognizable mush, much less degrade himself in such a way. Still, they do need to get him alone if they're going to assassinate him, and they don't have tendays to come up with better ideas. ]
You are irresistible, [ he teases, reaching up to take Iorveth's hand. He grasps it loosely, terribly aware of the damage he did a few inches up on Iorveth's wrist, but it sends a wave of warmth through him anyway. Iorveth may have an oral fixation, but for him, it's Iorveth's hands: long fingers, callused palms, capable of unimaginable violence and even more unimaginable gentleness. They're perfect. ]
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[ 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.
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...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?
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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?
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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.
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[ 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.
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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.
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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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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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An inn with a stable, then. There should be one or two.
[ They walk on, arm in arm, away from the fishermens' bared teeth and narrowed eyes, sidestepping a few drowsy-eyed dwarves carrying a stack of chopped wood. Even they give Iorveth a once-over despite being non-humans, noting the missing eye with a glimmer of recognition. "Is that...?", unspoken.
Iorveth walks a little faster. The inn they eventually find is the biggest one in town, only because it shares its premises with the town brothel: a symbiotic relationship. The nature of the establishment ensures that the proprietress is awake even at this ungodly hour, and she greets the two elves with the sort of distant politeness she reserves for people she doesn't strictly want to have near her, but will endure for the sake of coin.
Here, too, Iorveth gets a once-over. "Where'd you two come from?", she asks Astarion, clearly preferring to address him instead of the scary guy with the covered face. ]
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We aren't from around here, [ he's quick to say, as if that might ward off any suspicion. ] Never even been to this part of the continent, actually! We're Cormyrean, if you must know.
[ The woman raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised that someone who claims to be from the heartlands of the continent has travelled all this way. He ignores it, smiling pleasantly. ]
We're on our way to visit family in the Dales. Isn't that right, darling?
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Distant relatives.
[ Since, you know, they've never been to this part of the continent, so clearly this side of the family wasn't worth visiting until now. Again, a hard sell, but coin is the great equalizer: before she can comment on inconsistencies in the elves' story, Iorveth slides over what she deems, ultimately, to be enough gold to shut her up for at least the next 48 hours. She pockets the money, and exchanges it for a little iron key "for the upstairs room at the end of the hall― don't turn the corner, you'll need to pay extra for that privilege".
Iorveth turns to leave, but before Astarion can follow suit, the innkeep reaches over and closes her fingers over his wrist. She leans in, auburn hair tied up and away from her made-up face, the scent of her lavender perfume having faded to an unpleasant sting of something that smells almost like baby powder.
"Our Commandant is looking for one-eyed wood elves," she murmurs under her breath, intending the statement to be for Astarion's ears only. ]
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Is he?
[ Damn Iorveth for being so distinctive. ]
Well, my sweet Edgar lost his eye to an owlbear attack. You know, he didn't even try to defend himself! That man wouldn't hurt a fly.
[ Said as if he didn't just watch Iorveth murder a few men a day ago. He smiles charmingly, pearly whites on display. ]
Best of luck to your commander. I do hope he finds the one-eyed wood elf he's looking for.
[ He skitters away after that, catching up to Iorveth to loop their arms together, the perfect picture of a Cormyrean couple travelling to visit the distant in-laws. Astarion leans in, voice lowered. ]
Far be it from me to rush perfection, but the quicker we're in and out, the better.
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At the suggestion that they try to expedite their task at hand: ] Or I get a new face.
[ A joke, bone-dry. ]
The fastest way to depose the current human in power would be to burn him and the entire town down. Unfortunately, this place is home to non-humans－ not to mention that the neighboring forest would burn down with it.
[ Moving up the stairs, down the hall. The key they've been given slots neatly into the room at the end of the hall, as promised, and the door swings open to reveal a modestly-sized space with one large bed. A normal-enough room, if not for the squirrel head mounted on the wall next to the lone window.
Iorveth grimaces, and closes the door behind him. ] I'll have to find a way to get to the Commandant. Preferably in private.
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He tosses his pack on the floor when they enter, putting his hands on his hips and staring disapprovingly at the mounted woodland creature. Ugh, tacky. After a long moment of judgment, he flops down onto the bed. Not exactly fancy, but better than sleeping on the ground. ]
Does he favor men, do you think?
[ Can't teach an old dog new tricks. Seduction is really just habit now. ]
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－unimpressed, he sweeps over to Astarion where he's reclined on the bed, and flicks him between his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. ]
Even if he does, [ enunciating each syllable, ] do you think I'd willingly allow him to lay even a finger on you?
[ Not even a real question. Maybe 300 years from now, Astarion will be more comfortable with the thought of using seduction as a technique to get what he wants, but now? Not so much, Iorveth thinks. ]
Don't be stupid. I'd offer myself before I offered you, fool.
[ Another light flick, though this time he soothes over the little red spot with his thumb. ]
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You are irresistible, [ he teases, reaching up to take Iorveth's hand. He grasps it loosely, terribly aware of the damage he did a few inches up on Iorveth's wrist, but it sends a wave of warmth through him anyway. Iorveth may have an oral fixation, but for him, it's Iorveth's hands: long fingers, callused palms, capable of unimaginable violence and even more unimaginable gentleness. They're perfect. ]
Mmm. Well, I'm out of ideas.
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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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