[ Angry with him. Unbelievable. Iorveth has more rage in him than he has any idea what to do with, but none of it is directed in Astarion's direction. It's a different intensity altogether, the sort of heartsickness that could make Iorveth scream; this is his fault, this only happened because Iorveth told Astarion to stay.
That's an open wound to lick later, though. Now, he shakes his head and tosses severed rope aside, helping Astarion back upright with blood-streaked hands holding stiff shoulders. ]
You should be furious with me.
[ It would be deserved. Iorveth'd been half-expecting Astarion to snap at him, to tell him that nothing is worth being treated like this. A low breath, and he divests the still-shuddering corpse of the footman of Astarion's dagger, placing it carefully in Astarion's hands to give him some means of self-defense in this rapidly-worsening situation. ]
[ His legs are a little sore from being dragged around and thrown in a cellar, but they still work fine. A cautious step forward, and he nods, fingers wrapping around the handle of the dagger. The world feels a little bit brighter with a weapon in his hand, no longer helpless. As he stares down at the bloodied corpse of the footman, he gives him a retaliatory kick in the stomach. It's not as satisfying as it would be if he were still alive, but it makes blood spurt out of the Iorveth-made openings in his body. ]
Let's go.
[ He wants to be rid of this place already, but Iorveth didn't come here only to rescue him. ]
[ Astarion, still speaking his language even after all this. A sane person would probably scream and cry and throw a fit, demanding that they be let out of here so they can go― instead, Astarion is graciously giving Iorveth a chance to kill a man, with the implication that he will, in fact, go with him.
Crazy. Iorveth stares for a moment, uncomprehending, before he snaps himself out of it with a shake of his head and a puffed exhale. ]
...Watching the docks from a safe distance, no doubt. [ A coward, through and through. ] Come. Stay close to me.
[ Fortunately for them, they still have the element of surprise: the confusion reigning in the mansion is first and foremost attributable to the nearby fire than an intruder in their midst, though some savvy guardsmen are starting to gear up, anticipating the worst. "It's got to be Iorveth," one man in the hallway whines to his companion, the both of them crouched on the ground lacing their boots. "It's because we stole his pet elf."
Not wrong. Iorveth deftly lodges a bolt in the whiner's skull, letting Astarion take care of the other one if he's so inclined. With those two dead, they have a clear path up to the second floor, where Loredo must be skulking about. ]
You can do me the honor of killing him, [ Iorveth murmurs mid-journey. Honestly, Astarion deserves it. ]
[ Astarion hurls his dagger into the other man's chest, retrieving it once he's crumpled on the ground and wiping it off against his now-prone body. His gaze falls on the whiner, bolt sticking out of his ugly head. Pet. Astarion's eyes narrow, his nose wrinkled, lip curled. Is that what people think of him, still? He supposes he proved them right, lying around and waiting for his owner to come and save him. For yet another time, he feels himself flood with shame.
No time to dwell on it, although he'd really like to. He glances at Iorveth. ]
We'll do it together.
[ A fair way to do it. They both hate him. It wouldn't be right to deprive either one of them of the pleasure of watching the light go out of his eyes.
As he skulks up the stairs, he calls, ] Oh, Commandant.
[ "Pet elf", the humans say, when the truth of the matter is that Astarion is the one with Iorveth, helplessly and furiously in love with him, wrapped around his little finger. A vengeful, ruthless attack fox, circling his beloved's feet with his fangs bared.
Case in point: Loredo. When they swing the door open into his upstairs office, the man is pressed to the wall opposite them, sword in hand, sweating. "How in the hells―", he groans, glancing at the window behind him, clearly assessing whether or not the fall would do serious damage if he chose to jump out.
"Fine," he spits, "you win. You burned my barges and you killed my guards. You've made an arse of me, so―"
A full-bodied tremor, as he watches Iorveth step forward. There's no discernible expression on the elf's features: it's impassivity to the point of insanity, rage so condensed that it's gone full circle to near-numbness. Loredo brandishes his sword, roaring at Iorveth to get back as he hacks away at air, graceless and frenetic. ]
[ Even now, with Astarion standing in front of him with a dagger, the Commandant only sees Iorveth. It rankles how little importance, significance Astarion holds in his eyes. Just a hanger-on, or as the Commandant had so disgustingly said, someone for a more relevant person to stick his prick into. In contrast with Iorveth's impassivity, he's practically steaming from the ears, face turning red with rage. ]
He has a bow, you idiot.
[ Keeping Iorveth at a distance won't save him when he could put a bolt through the Commandant's eyes from a mile away. Astarion, though, would rather not close the distance when his enemy is swinging a sword. Instead, he throws his dagger with a quick flick of the wrist, aiming for Loredo's shoulder. ]
[ Loredo isn't wearing armor: a level of complacency that'll prove to be lethal, Iorveth thinks. Stupider than the man's lack of protection is his assumption that Astarion wouldn't know how to use the weapon he'd been holding in his hand, and Loredo yelps as the dagger strikes his shoulder with angry accuracy, prompting him to drop his sword.
The cost of letting one's narrow worldview dictate every situation. Iorveth watches the man drop to his knees in pain, tuning out his senseless babble.
Turning to Astarion: ]
Do you wish for him to beg?
[ Deferring to Astarion's preferences on this one, gesturing for him to come closer as Iorveth kicks the human onto his back and steps on his stomach with icy contempt. Loredo squawks inelegantly, and curses a few times before realizing that he is, in fact, on very thin ice.
"You two can go, I won't send my men after you again―" ]
[ Astarion draws closer, looking down at the man pinned on the ground, babbling. He isn't so scary now. Funny, how ten minutes and a cadre of dead guards can change things. ]
Mmm, [ he says in fake contemplation, ] yes.
[ Not that it will change anything. Iorveth wants him dead, so the miserable wretch has been dead since the moment they walked into this town. Astarion, too, despises him for the way he made him feel: small, powerless, insignificant. Allowing him to live after that is unthinkable. ]
Go on. [ His foot collides with Loredo's side, hard, just the way he'd done to Astarion. ] I imagine you're good at begging. I hear you do rather a lot of it in the brothel when you've been captured by she-elves.
[ The blow to Loredo's side lands, and while the physical pain should be immediate and unbearable, the verbal insult is what finally turns the man's face an interesting shade of red-purple. He splutters, caught between rage and mortification, and Iorveth watches with the sort of brow-raised disdain reserved for people he regards as less than something inconvenient stuck to the bottom of his boot.
"That's... Hells, I've never...!", Loredo protests, but is cut off by the bone-crushing pressure of Iorveth's foot against his diaphragm. ]
He told you to beg, not to make excuses.
[ Uncompromising. Not a shred of mercy anywhere on Iorveth's stone-faced expression. Loredo looks up with misty eyes, and turns towards Astarion to appeal, perhaps, to his conscience.
"I... Please. You should understand, he..." Loredo's attempt to gesture towards Iorveth with his injured arm ends in a groan and a wince, piglike features scrunching into the middle of his face. He takes a moment to breathe, but seems to give up on making a case for himself soon after. "Please, spare me. Mercy... Noble high elf, sir..."
More babbling, punctuated by sweaty fingers scrabbling over a mud-stained rug. They get too close to Astarion for comfort, so Iorveth removes his foot from the human's stomach to stomp on them, instead. ]
[ The corner of Astarion's mouth curls up in cruel amusement. Now that's the sort of begging he's been waiting for: pathetic blubbering by a man on the floor while Astarion stares down at him, merciless and unblinking. Gods, it's perfect -- or it would be, if he hadn't had to be the victim first. Still, he's determined to enjoy the moment while it lasts.
Killing Cazador had been a letdown. This one doesn't have to be. ]
Oh, don't worry. I'll be merciful.
[ He reaches down, yanking the dagger from Loredo's flesh and causing bright red blood to seep from the wound. Astarion inhales the coppery scent of gushing blood as he twirls the dagger in his hand, idle and unhurried. ]
There are plenty of things worse than death. Compared to what he could do to you [ --he glances at Iorveth, sopping wet and bathed in the blood of the Commandant's men-- ] this is a mercy.
[ He crouches, then, getting one last look at Loredo's reddened face before he shoves the blade through his throat. ]
[ The threadbare hope that glimmers in Loredo's eyes is instantly snuffed out by the dawning realization that death is what Astarion considers mercy; that despair is the last thing he feels before the dagger plunges through his neck, and everything else is impossible agony until, mercifully, he feels nothing at all.
Iorveth waits until the corpse stops gagging on its own blood before lifting his foot from Loredo's mangled hand, inscrutable even in the face of all of this violence. He's still livid－ the death of one bigot isn't enough to satisfy his indignance over the entirety of the crime of human institution－ but he has to be content with this small non-victory for now.
Brushing his wet hair from his face, he tosses aside the pilfered crossbow (an inelegant weapon; he definitely prefers his own longbow) and glances outside the window at the still-enfolding chaos by the docks. ]
We should go, [ he offers. ] Few will mourn Loredo's loss, but they'll still want our heads for killing him.
[ It's Henselt all over again. No one likes oligarchs, but they still need to make examples of people. A recurring farce.
Iorveth hums under his breath, and picks up a box of matches off Loredo's desk. ] What say you to a bonfire before we leave?
[ Even after such a satisfying kill, Astarion still feels disgusting, like there's a thin film of filth all over his entire body. Some of it is physical filth, picked up by being dragged over the ground and tossed in a musty cellar, but some of it is a more figurative filth, albeit not any less real. He'd liked to think that, after crushing Cazador beneath his boot, he wouldn't ever feel that way again. It's a dreadful thought that he was wrong, and even more dreadful to think that, if not for Iorveth, he'd still be tied up in that cellar, if not decomposing at the bottom of the river.
All of that is to say that it's difficult to bask in the victory the way that he'd like to. He snatches the box and strikes the match with a swift flick of his wrist, tossing it on a pile of papers that quickly goes up in flame, soon accompanied by the wooden desk they sit on. Just kindling now. ]
[ Oh. Well, Iorveth isn't going to argue against the sentiment, but－ ]
－We still need to get out, [ he reminds Astarion as the fire quickly starts spreading through the study, jumping from one flammable object to the next. Ledgers packed full of parchment burst into a column of flame, and Iorveth grabs Astarion's wrist to tug him back and away before he can burn his brows off.
It's always something. He leads Astarion out of the room and towards the stairs, where a few men have noticed the smell of smoke and have started panicking anew: "the fire's inside the building, now!" Idiots. Iorveth snarls and shoves one of the bumbling fools aside ("hells, is that Iorveth?!"), tripping another one and tossing him down over the landing in their madcap rush to escape from the quickly-spreading inferno.
Someone tries to grab Iorveth by the hair; he headbutts them. ]
This way, [ he huffs, pulling Astarion towards a different hall leading to the kitchen that he came in from. ]
Oh, [ is Astarion's response to the assertion that they can't just stand here and get burned to a crisp with the rest of Loredo's things. He allows himself to be tugged along, survival instincts guiding him to slip out of a passing guard's grip. It not only smells of smoke, but the whole structure is swiftly filling with it.
All right, maybe it was a bad idea to commit arson in the building that they're currently standing in.
Iorveth tugs him along; he has a better internal map of the place than Astarion, considering that he's barely seen most of the place. It's only now that Astarion starts to consider how Iorveth must have gotten here in the first place, and he says, with some trepidation, ] —Don't tell me you swam here.
[ Bursting into the empty kitchen, Iorveth beelines for the side door leading out into the strip of grassy yard separating the mansion from the river. The air outside is just as muggy as the air inside, smoke from the mansion joining with the smoke from the docks, but at least they're in less immediate danger of death by fire.
Unfortunately, they may now be in some imminent danger of drowning if Astarion can't swim, which is what Iorveth is taking away from the "don't tell me you swam here". He stops, clothes still dripping and hair a mess, turning towards Astarion with unmistakable questioning in his single eye. ]
－A vampire limitation? [ He thinks he remembers something about running water being unpleasant to them, or something of the sort. Fuck. ] Is it impossible for you to even cross the river?
[ If they get to the forest on the other side, the rest of their escape will be relatively easier. Iorveth reaches to take Astarion's hand, tangling fingers and squeezing lightly. ]
[ A vampire limitation. The words are accurate, but he still hates hearing them. His limitations. Like Cazador's way of reaching out and ruining his life from beyond the grave. ]
I— [ He swallows thickly, gaze on the water in the distance. It's dark and murky in the nighttime. Foreboding. ] I suppose it isn't impossible.
[ His throat is tight as he makes the concession, all but unwilling to admit that no, it wouldn't be impossible for him to escape through the river. Possible doesn't mean pleasant, though, or perhaps even tolerable. He takes a look back at the smoldering mansion, considering. ]
Running water is like acid to a vampire.
[ It's a horrific round of would you rather, but— he'd prefer recovering from the burns to being cooked alive at this mansion or being beheaded by its guards. That doesn't mean that dread doesn't seep through his every pore at the thought of braving running water. ]
And, as you can imagine, that means I'm not exactly the strongest swimmer.
[ An understatement. Excluding their dip in the Chionthar after taking on the Netherbrain, during which he splashed to land as quickly as he could, he hasn't gone for a swim in over two centuries. ]
You don't think I would demand that you bathe in acid.
[ Says the hypocrite who demanded that Astarion burn his wrists with it. Obviously, the escape would be quicker and easier if they made as much distance between them and the burning establishment(s) as possible, but Iorveth has no idea how vampire physiology really works with respect to these complications－ do vampires naturally recover from sun-induced or water-induced burns? Would he need to find a healer? Would Astarion even be able to walk after dipping himself into the river?
Removing his hand from Astarion's, Iorveth glances over his shoulder at the chaos still raging in the mansion behind them. Guards and townspeople are starting to mill about, loudly asking about what the hells is going on; Iorveth gestures for Astarion to follow him away from the clamor and towards the tall grass growing along the riverbank. Better than standing there out in the open. ]
[ Astarion has no response to that. It isn't that he thinks Iorveth doesn't care—he's proven time and time again that he does—but that he's still used to his own thoughts and feelings being irrelevant at best. No one would have cared if he was hurting a year ago. No one did. Hells, it's a wonder that Cazador never ordered him to jump in a river for his own amusement.
He crouches in the grass beside Iorveth, reaching out to tug on his sleeve. Voice low, he says, ] Not to throw another spanner in the works, but we'll need to find shelter before daybreak.
[ Shelter. Of course― another vampire limitation. It doesn't bother or frustrate Iorveth that he has to consider these things, but it does put them in a race against time, and he glances at the dark forest across from them, the ink-black water stretching like a taunt between them and their potential escape route. ]
...We can follow the river north into the forest for now, until we find someplace suitable. [ Iorveth has thought to dip back into the inn room for most of their things, having anticipated that he wouldn't return, but he'd left the tents behind― they were too cumbersome to lug around during an assassination attempt. Unfortunate. ] It'll take us away from Waterdeep, but we can find a way to circle back after the chaos dies down.
[ By then, maybe Iorveth will find a solution to the river problem. (Maybe not.) Either way, his only priority right now is getting Astarion somewhere safe, and so he turns his hand over to hold the fingers at his sleeve, giving them a light squeeze again. ]
[ Astarion wishes he could complain about having to travel through the forest, but it is his fault that they have to at all; if not for his vampirism, they'd already be across the river by now, someplace safe. He feels a little tremor of fear shake through him, questioning what will become of him if they don't find 'someplace suitable' in time, but he stuffs the thought down. ]
All right.
[ There's a million other things he could say, but it isn't the time. Apologies and questions will have to come later, when he's certain that death won't come for him today. He tugs Iorveth along by the hand as he follows the river as instructed, keeping a healthy distance from the water that runs beside them. ]
We'd better make haste, then. I don't fancy finding out how long it takes for the sun to burn me to ash.
[ The indigo-black of night is slowly thinning; they will have to hurry, before the sun starts bruising the sky yellow-purple. Iorveth lets Astarion lead, north and away from the hollering of the panicked Flotsam residents, away from fire and smoke and ash, into the placid indifference of an ancient forest that rests on far too many bodies for two elves to be particularly remarkable.
Here and there, as they walk, there are vestiges of what might have been elven settlements: broken marble columns leaning against the trunks of broad trees, crumbling limestone stairs leading to elevated platforms without walls or ceilings. Something that resembles half of a fountain is nestled in a clearing lined with flowering bushes; a statue lies sideways in moss, so damaged that it's impossible to tell if it was of a man or a woman.
Iorveth keeps his expression trained to obstinate neutral, biting back the agony of preternatural grief. There may be something in all this rubble that could serve as shelter from impending and inevitable daylight; right now, Astarion is more important than the weight of desecrated elven history. ]
Do you see anything suitable?
[ Broken arches, stone bridges, a lopsided gazebo. Iorveth stays close behind Astarion, deferring to him for a decision; whatever makes him feel less like an animal burrowing into a hole. ]
[ The skeletal remains of a society destroyed. Astarion has never considered himself sentimental, but there is something about the place that's a bit haunting. One can imagine children running around the fountain, old grannies gathering in the gazebo. He isn't sure when he started finding things like this sad. Before, he'd never had any room for empathy, only the pain of his own suffering.
'Suitable' isn't the word he'd use to describe it, but Astarion crouches to slide under the protection of a dilapidated bridge that runs across a depression in the forest floor. Small, dark. The perfect place for a rat to hide. He sits on the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest to make himself smaller. ]
You know, [ he says, frowning, ] that first day, I curled up and hid behind a collection of shipping containers.
[ Astarion curls into himself, and something about seeing him like this, disheveled and bruised and covered in dirt, makes Iorveth's heart clench. It was terrible seeing his pale skin scorch and fray in sunlight, and this evokes the same sort of sinking feeling; the thought that someone might be punished just for existing, even after all that triumph.
Iorveth doesn't approach Astarion. Instead, he remains standing and leans against the foundations of the bridge a few paces away, his back to jagged stone, arms folded. Giving Astarion space. ]
...An unhappy end to a hard-earned victory.
[ Iorveth'd wondered, briefly, if he'd ever see Astarion at all again. He doesn't venture anything further, in case Astarion wants to speak more on that day. ]
[ Like confirmation that killing Cazador hadn't even mattered, because he'd still changed Astarion irreparably. No matter what, there'll always be a piece of him that remains. He'd been so angry, too, thinking of the celebrating his companions must have been doing. They'd finally been freed, when he'd just been shackled again. Only Karlach would possibly understand, and it isn't like he can just send a letter to Avernus to talk about it. ]
I couldn't bear for you see me in that state. [ Part of him hadn't ever wanted to be seen again. It was just as humiliating to come crawling back at nightfall.
A humorless laugh. ] Well, look at me now.
[ In the span of one day, Iorveth has seen him in nearly every way that Astarion would never want him to. A helpless victim, a hiding cockroach. He feels sick with self-disgust. ]
[ A long pause, lingering. If Iorveth loved Astarion less, he would have been more austere; he would have reminded Astarion that it's the world that should be ashamed of breaking and binding the best of them. One of his long-winded speeches about injustice and humiliation and how he's embraced these things to keep what's left of himself held together.
He loves Astarion, though. So he thinks about these things, and says none of them.
What he does say: ] I only see you.
[ Disheveled and distressed and smaller than usual, yes, but the shape of him is beloved and sacred, no matter what he's weathered.
Iorveth decides not to say that, either. Instead, he pushes himself away from the column he's leaning on, head bowed in quiet reverence. ]
But if you wish me to leave and return at nightfall, I will. [ Whatever dignity Astarion wishes to preserve, it's his. ] ―Obviously, I'll not be far.
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That's an open wound to lick later, though. Now, he shakes his head and tosses severed rope aside, helping Astarion back upright with blood-streaked hands holding stiff shoulders. ]
You should be furious with me.
[ It would be deserved. Iorveth'd been half-expecting Astarion to snap at him, to tell him that nothing is worth being treated like this. A low breath, and he divests the still-shuddering corpse of the footman of Astarion's dagger, placing it carefully in Astarion's hands to give him some means of self-defense in this rapidly-worsening situation. ]
...Can you walk?
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Let's go.
[ He wants to be rid of this place already, but Iorveth didn't come here only to rescue him. ]
The Commandant must be somewhere upstairs.
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Crazy. Iorveth stares for a moment, uncomprehending, before he snaps himself out of it with a shake of his head and a puffed exhale. ]
...Watching the docks from a safe distance, no doubt. [ A coward, through and through. ] Come. Stay close to me.
[ Fortunately for them, they still have the element of surprise: the confusion reigning in the mansion is first and foremost attributable to the nearby fire than an intruder in their midst, though some savvy guardsmen are starting to gear up, anticipating the worst. "It's got to be Iorveth," one man in the hallway whines to his companion, the both of them crouched on the ground lacing their boots. "It's because we stole his pet elf."
Not wrong. Iorveth deftly lodges a bolt in the whiner's skull, letting Astarion take care of the other one if he's so inclined. With those two dead, they have a clear path up to the second floor, where Loredo must be skulking about. ]
You can do me the honor of killing him, [ Iorveth murmurs mid-journey. Honestly, Astarion deserves it. ]
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No time to dwell on it, although he'd really like to. He glances at Iorveth. ]
We'll do it together.
[ A fair way to do it. They both hate him. It wouldn't be right to deprive either one of them of the pleasure of watching the light go out of his eyes.
As he skulks up the stairs, he calls, ] Oh, Commandant.
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Case in point: Loredo. When they swing the door open into his upstairs office, the man is pressed to the wall opposite them, sword in hand, sweating. "How in the hells―", he groans, glancing at the window behind him, clearly assessing whether or not the fall would do serious damage if he chose to jump out.
"Fine," he spits, "you win. You burned my barges and you killed my guards. You've made an arse of me, so―"
A full-bodied tremor, as he watches Iorveth step forward. There's no discernible expression on the elf's features: it's impassivity to the point of insanity, rage so condensed that it's gone full circle to near-numbness. Loredo brandishes his sword, roaring at Iorveth to get back as he hacks away at air, graceless and frenetic. ]
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He has a bow, you idiot.
[ Keeping Iorveth at a distance won't save him when he could put a bolt through the Commandant's eyes from a mile away. Astarion, though, would rather not close the distance when his enemy is swinging a sword. Instead, he throws his dagger with a quick flick of the wrist, aiming for Loredo's shoulder. ]
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The cost of letting one's narrow worldview dictate every situation. Iorveth watches the man drop to his knees in pain, tuning out his senseless babble.
Turning to Astarion: ]
Do you wish for him to beg?
[ Deferring to Astarion's preferences on this one, gesturing for him to come closer as Iorveth kicks the human onto his back and steps on his stomach with icy contempt. Loredo squawks inelegantly, and curses a few times before realizing that he is, in fact, on very thin ice.
"You two can go, I won't send my men after you again―" ]
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Mmm, [ he says in fake contemplation, ] yes.
[ Not that it will change anything. Iorveth wants him dead, so the miserable wretch has been dead since the moment they walked into this town. Astarion, too, despises him for the way he made him feel: small, powerless, insignificant. Allowing him to live after that is unthinkable. ]
Go on. [ His foot collides with Loredo's side, hard, just the way he'd done to Astarion. ] I imagine you're good at begging. I hear you do rather a lot of it in the brothel when you've been captured by she-elves.
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"That's... Hells, I've never...!", Loredo protests, but is cut off by the bone-crushing pressure of Iorveth's foot against his diaphragm. ]
He told you to beg, not to make excuses.
[ Uncompromising. Not a shred of mercy anywhere on Iorveth's stone-faced expression. Loredo looks up with misty eyes, and turns towards Astarion to appeal, perhaps, to his conscience.
"I... Please. You should understand, he..." Loredo's attempt to gesture towards Iorveth with his injured arm ends in a groan and a wince, piglike features scrunching into the middle of his face. He takes a moment to breathe, but seems to give up on making a case for himself soon after. "Please, spare me. Mercy... Noble high elf, sir..."
More babbling, punctuated by sweaty fingers scrabbling over a mud-stained rug. They get too close to Astarion for comfort, so Iorveth removes his foot from the human's stomach to stomp on them, instead. ]
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Killing Cazador had been a letdown. This one doesn't have to be. ]
Oh, don't worry. I'll be merciful.
[ He reaches down, yanking the dagger from Loredo's flesh and causing bright red blood to seep from the wound. Astarion inhales the coppery scent of gushing blood as he twirls the dagger in his hand, idle and unhurried. ]
There are plenty of things worse than death. Compared to what he could do to you [ --he glances at Iorveth, sopping wet and bathed in the blood of the Commandant's men-- ] this is a mercy.
[ He crouches, then, getting one last look at Loredo's reddened face before he shoves the blade through his throat. ]
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Iorveth waits until the corpse stops gagging on its own blood before lifting his foot from Loredo's mangled hand, inscrutable even in the face of all of this violence. He's still livid－ the death of one bigot isn't enough to satisfy his indignance over the entirety of the crime of human institution－ but he has to be content with this small non-victory for now.
Brushing his wet hair from his face, he tosses aside the pilfered crossbow (an inelegant weapon; he definitely prefers his own longbow) and glances outside the window at the still-enfolding chaos by the docks. ]
We should go, [ he offers. ] Few will mourn Loredo's loss, but they'll still want our heads for killing him.
[ It's Henselt all over again. No one likes oligarchs, but they still need to make examples of people. A recurring farce.
Iorveth hums under his breath, and picks up a box of matches off Loredo's desk. ] What say you to a bonfire before we leave?
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All of that is to say that it's difficult to bask in the victory the way that he'd like to. He snatches the box and strikes the match with a swift flick of his wrist, tossing it on a pile of papers that quickly goes up in flame, soon accompanied by the wooden desk they sit on. Just kindling now. ]
To hells with this wretched place.
[ He already hates the north. ]
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－We still need to get out, [ he reminds Astarion as the fire quickly starts spreading through the study, jumping from one flammable object to the next. Ledgers packed full of parchment burst into a column of flame, and Iorveth grabs Astarion's wrist to tug him back and away before he can burn his brows off.
It's always something. He leads Astarion out of the room and towards the stairs, where a few men have noticed the smell of smoke and have started panicking anew: "the fire's inside the building, now!" Idiots. Iorveth snarls and shoves one of the bumbling fools aside ("hells, is that Iorveth?!"), tripping another one and tossing him down over the landing in their madcap rush to escape from the quickly-spreading inferno.
Someone tries to grab Iorveth by the hair; he headbutts them. ]
This way, [ he huffs, pulling Astarion towards a different hall leading to the kitchen that he came in from. ]
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All right, maybe it was a bad idea to commit arson in the building that they're currently standing in.
Iorveth tugs him along; he has a better internal map of the place than Astarion, considering that he's barely seen most of the place. It's only now that Astarion starts to consider how Iorveth must have gotten here in the first place, and he says, with some trepidation, ] —Don't tell me you swam here.
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Unfortunately, they may now be in some imminent danger of drowning if Astarion can't swim, which is what Iorveth is taking away from the "don't tell me you swam here". He stops, clothes still dripping and hair a mess, turning towards Astarion with unmistakable questioning in his single eye. ]
－A vampire limitation? [ He thinks he remembers something about running water being unpleasant to them, or something of the sort. Fuck. ] Is it impossible for you to even cross the river?
[ If they get to the forest on the other side, the rest of their escape will be relatively easier. Iorveth reaches to take Astarion's hand, tangling fingers and squeezing lightly. ]
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I— [ He swallows thickly, gaze on the water in the distance. It's dark and murky in the nighttime. Foreboding. ] I suppose it isn't impossible.
[ His throat is tight as he makes the concession, all but unwilling to admit that no, it wouldn't be impossible for him to escape through the river. Possible doesn't mean pleasant, though, or perhaps even tolerable. He takes a look back at the smoldering mansion, considering. ]
Running water is like acid to a vampire.
[ It's a horrific round of would you rather, but— he'd prefer recovering from the burns to being cooked alive at this mansion or being beheaded by its guards. That doesn't mean that dread doesn't seep through his every pore at the thought of braving running water. ]
And, as you can imagine, that means I'm not exactly the strongest swimmer.
[ An understatement. Excluding their dip in the Chionthar after taking on the Netherbrain, during which he splashed to land as quickly as he could, he hasn't gone for a swim in over two centuries. ]
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You don't think I would demand that you bathe in acid.
[ Says the hypocrite who demanded that Astarion burn his wrists with it. Obviously, the escape would be quicker and easier if they made as much distance between them and the burning establishment(s) as possible, but Iorveth has no idea how vampire physiology really works with respect to these complications－ do vampires naturally recover from sun-induced or water-induced burns? Would he need to find a healer? Would Astarion even be able to walk after dipping himself into the river?
Removing his hand from Astarion's, Iorveth glances over his shoulder at the chaos still raging in the mansion behind them. Guards and townspeople are starting to mill about, loudly asking about what the hells is going on; Iorveth gestures for Astarion to follow him away from the clamor and towards the tall grass growing along the riverbank. Better than standing there out in the open. ]
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He crouches in the grass beside Iorveth, reaching out to tug on his sleeve. Voice low, he says, ] Not to throw another spanner in the works, but we'll need to find shelter before daybreak.
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...We can follow the river north into the forest for now, until we find someplace suitable. [ Iorveth has thought to dip back into the inn room for most of their things, having anticipated that he wouldn't return, but he'd left the tents behind― they were too cumbersome to lug around during an assassination attempt. Unfortunate. ] It'll take us away from Waterdeep, but we can find a way to circle back after the chaos dies down.
[ By then, maybe Iorveth will find a solution to the river problem. (Maybe not.) Either way, his only priority right now is getting Astarion somewhere safe, and so he turns his hand over to hold the fingers at his sleeve, giving them a light squeeze again. ]
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All right.
[ There's a million other things he could say, but it isn't the time. Apologies and questions will have to come later, when he's certain that death won't come for him today. He tugs Iorveth along by the hand as he follows the river as instructed, keeping a healthy distance from the water that runs beside them. ]
We'd better make haste, then. I don't fancy finding out how long it takes for the sun to burn me to ash.
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Here and there, as they walk, there are vestiges of what might have been elven settlements: broken marble columns leaning against the trunks of broad trees, crumbling limestone stairs leading to elevated platforms without walls or ceilings. Something that resembles half of a fountain is nestled in a clearing lined with flowering bushes; a statue lies sideways in moss, so damaged that it's impossible to tell if it was of a man or a woman.
Iorveth keeps his expression trained to obstinate neutral, biting back the agony of preternatural grief. There may be something in all this rubble that could serve as shelter from impending and inevitable daylight; right now, Astarion is more important than the weight of desecrated elven history. ]
Do you see anything suitable?
[ Broken arches, stone bridges, a lopsided gazebo. Iorveth stays close behind Astarion, deferring to him for a decision; whatever makes him feel less like an animal burrowing into a hole. ]
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'Suitable' isn't the word he'd use to describe it, but Astarion crouches to slide under the protection of a dilapidated bridge that runs across a depression in the forest floor. Small, dark. The perfect place for a rat to hide. He sits on the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest to make himself smaller. ]
You know, [ he says, frowning, ] that first day, I curled up and hid behind a collection of shipping containers.
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Iorveth doesn't approach Astarion. Instead, he remains standing and leans against the foundations of the bridge a few paces away, his back to jagged stone, arms folded. Giving Astarion space. ]
...An unhappy end to a hard-earned victory.
[ Iorveth'd wondered, briefly, if he'd ever see Astarion at all again. He doesn't venture anything further, in case Astarion wants to speak more on that day. ]
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[ Like confirmation that killing Cazador hadn't even mattered, because he'd still changed Astarion irreparably. No matter what, there'll always be a piece of him that remains. He'd been so angry, too, thinking of the celebrating his companions must have been doing. They'd finally been freed, when he'd just been shackled again. Only Karlach would possibly understand, and it isn't like he can just send a letter to Avernus to talk about it. ]
I couldn't bear for you see me in that state. [ Part of him hadn't ever wanted to be seen again. It was just as humiliating to come crawling back at nightfall.
A humorless laugh. ] Well, look at me now.
[ In the span of one day, Iorveth has seen him in nearly every way that Astarion would never want him to. A helpless victim, a hiding cockroach. He feels sick with self-disgust. ]
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He loves Astarion, though. So he thinks about these things, and says none of them.
What he does say: ] I only see you.
[ Disheveled and distressed and smaller than usual, yes, but the shape of him is beloved and sacred, no matter what he's weathered.
Iorveth decides not to say that, either. Instead, he pushes himself away from the column he's leaning on, head bowed in quiet reverence. ]
But if you wish me to leave and return at nightfall, I will. [ Whatever dignity Astarion wishes to preserve, it's his. ] ―Obviously, I'll not be far.
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