[ 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.
[ Yes, he thinks. He wants Iorveth to leave so that he can be morose and brood and feel even worse than he does right now. He wants to wallow in his own self-pity and self-loathing, and once he's done, maybe he'll want to ruin the only good thing he has by taking it out on Iorveth, too. He wants to feel awful, and to make everyone else feel just as awful as he does.
That's the initial thought, anyway. Instinct rarely changes after being set in stone for two centuries. He's spent quite a lot of that time curled up alone in the dark, feeling small and unimportant, seething with rage at himself and at others. There's never been anyone he liked enough, much less trusted enough, to want them to stay. No one whose presence would be a comfort.
Being alone hasn't done much for him. He turns to look at Iorveth, peeking out from under his cover. ]
[ Lashing out is well within the scope of permissible behavior: gods know he's done it in the past, when his wounds were still fresh and his hair long enough to braid. It surprises him, even, that Astarion hasn't hissed and snapped and pushed back at the absurdity of all of this, especially since none of these troubles have anything to do with him.
It surprises him more, then, when Astarion says "don't go". Red eyes peering out from the dim, the glow of them artificially granted by vampirism but beautiful nevertheless.
Iorveth has no defenses against that look; he could probably agree to anything when it's telegraphed like that, in Astarion's shape and voice. He lingers where he is for a moment, still damp with river water and caked in mud and blood, before doing as he's bid. One step, two steps closer to where Astarion is huddled, before he kneels in front of those forward-curled shoulders. Still reverent, like an attendant in front of his liege. A silent agreement that he'll stay. ]
[ He sits there silently for a moment, the both of them shaded by the canopy of stone above them as the sun begins to color the sky rosy, brooding and selfish. No part of this must have been easy for Iorveth, he recognizes. It's only that Iorveth is so stoic, so impossibly deferential to Astarion's pain, that he doesn't take the opportunity to wallow in his own.
Astarion reaches out to tuck a strand of wet hair behind Iorveth's ear. His fingers come away muddy.
[ Iorveth doesn't need the threat of torture to admit that he likes Astarion precisely because of his selfishness. His read on Astarion is that he wants as much as he fears, and Iorveth wants to stay with Astarion long enough until the scale tips out of equilibrium and the wants far outweigh the fears; Iorveth wants Astarion to yell and bite him and demand things of him. Does that make him a masochist? It makes him insane, at the very least.
(Why wallow in his own pain? It's the only instinct he's trusted until he met Astarion; he's a thing made of pain, and that's what the world demands of him.)
He feels the soft sift of Astarion's fingers over his hair, his skin, and it's only after the touch lifts that Iorveth also lifts his mask of impassivity. All the sharpness he'd worn to keep the bigots away slips, giving him more space for softness, affection, and more prominently, exhaustion. ]
The humans must have hit your head harder than I thought. [ A joke, tired but gentle. ] I should go back and kill them all.
[ That's the face he loves, Iorveth's expression somehow all the softer for the frown lines etched into his skin from what must be a century of scowling. He'd been worried that, perhaps, he might not see this expression, that Iorveth would be upset with him for walking right into a trap and proving him right that Astarion should have just gone to Waterdeep to have tea with Gale. His palm rests on Iorveth's cheek, bloodstained and dirt-streaked, in a gesture that Iorveth has done to him countless times. There's meaning to the action, he thinks, and although he isn't quite sure what it is, he knows that it must be affectionate. ]
If this is any indication, [ he says, swiping some sticky blood from Iorveth's cheek with his thumb, ] you've already thinned out the horde considerably.
[ Iorveth must have slain more men in one day than they have in the last tenday. A massacre, by most accounts. He's quiet for a moment, images flitting through his head of Iorveth swimming through that river, setting that fire, killing those men. ]
[ Astarion should have gone to Waterdeep to drink tea with Gale. He could have been sitting in a nice room in a nice tower drinking nice wine out of Gale's nice cellar with a nice (?) tressym who would have sat nicely (?) on Astarion's lap. He would have changed into a nice set of comfortable robes and spent a nice night in a nice city with nice (?) people and a nice wizard who isn't at all deranged (citation needed). Instead, he's here, his favorite shoes muddy, huddled under elven ruins with an unhinged, gore-slicked elf.
It guts Iorveth to think that he took niceness away from Astarion. Of all the things that have made him furious tonight, that ranks at the top of list. The only thing keeping Iorveth from suggesting that the Teatime with Gale option still exists is the impossible notion that perhaps... just perhaps, maybe, Astarion doesn't regret staying here, with him. That this is actually an active choice that Astarion is still making, because that's more sacred than what Iorveth feels.
So. He tilts his head, near-uncomprehending. He doesn't want to touch Astarion because he is, quite frankly, incredibly disgusting in his current state, but he does edge closer. ]
You wouldn't thank me for breathing. [ To the tune of "in what world would I have done anything else???" ] I would burn the world for you－ how many times do you need me to say it?
[ A huff, mock-annoyed. His lips curl upwards, betraying his exasperated amusement. ] Blindsided by the pretty women, were you?
[ Affectionate. Another way to say "I'm not mad". ]
[ Breathing. Astarion's heart swells. He never imagined Iorveth would leave him to die—that sort of betrayal is anathema to everything Iorveth is—but to hear how inexorable, how inevitable it was fills him with warmth. He matters. If not to the world at large, then at least to one person. His arms twitch with the desire to throw them around Iorveth's shoulders and pull him close, but he's a little disgusting himself, so he resists. ]
They might have been more wily than I gave them credit for.
[ Or maybe he's less wily than he gave himself credit for. He should have been more careful. The wine had seemed harmless, but he should have made an excuse not to drink it instead. He'd said he wanted to protect Iorveth, but instead he put Iorveth in danger. ]
[ Again, Astarion says, cementing Iorveth's suspicions that Astarion hasn't called it quits yet. It's still a little unbelievable that Astarion likes him enough to stay; it makes that same part of Iorveth that ached to see Astarion hurt feel even more heartsick.
That, and. Well. Iorveth thinks that he might actually be literally sick, in terms of health. Exhausted, sleep-deprived, hungry (those fucking humans could have waited until he got to eat the rabbit that Astarion had so kindly fetched for him)― the burnt and raw skin under his now-wet bandages might be more than a little inflamed now, and wearing damp clothes hasn't been the best for regulating his fluctuating body temperature. Fighting a wave of dizziness that threatens to skew his balance, Iorveth divests himself of his ruined shirt, wiping his face and hair with the cleanest parts of it before he tosses it aside to rot. Now he looks less like a serial killer and more like a shirtless vagrant. Oh well. ]
Mm. [ A vague hum, as he shifts into a strategic position to block Astarion from the impending sun. ] Try, for my dwindling sanity's sake.
[ Astarion raises an eyebrow, huffing out a dry laugh. ]
My love, I thought we both knew. You haven't any sanity left to dwindle.
[ He hasn't for as long as Astarion has known him, but somehow he's become even more insane than the perpetually angry-looking wood elf with an ugly headscarf that Astarion met on the beach. Astarion doesn't mind, of course. Insane is hot. If not for Iorveth's insanity, he would never have helped Astarion free himself of Cazador, he never would have let a vampire drink his blood, and he definitely wouldn't have asked an undead being with no prospects to travel with him. Insanity works in Astarion's favor.
They're in no condition to cuddle, but Astarion reaches out to touch the tips of their fingers together. ]
You do look handsome, [ he says, because Iorveth always looks handsome in his eyes, ] but you also look as if you've been trampled by a horse. [ Handsomely. ] Rest. I'll keep watch until nightfall.
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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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That's the initial thought, anyway. Instinct rarely changes after being set in stone for two centuries. He's spent quite a lot of that time curled up alone in the dark, feeling small and unimportant, seething with rage at himself and at others. There's never been anyone he liked enough, much less trusted enough, to want them to stay. No one whose presence would be a comfort.
Being alone hasn't done much for him. He turns to look at Iorveth, peeking out from under his cover. ]
Don't go.
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It surprises him more, then, when Astarion says "don't go". Red eyes peering out from the dim, the glow of them artificially granted by vampirism but beautiful nevertheless.
Iorveth has no defenses against that look; he could probably agree to anything when it's telegraphed like that, in Astarion's shape and voice. He lingers where he is for a moment, still damp with river water and caked in mud and blood, before doing as he's bid. One step, two steps closer to where Astarion is huddled, before he kneels in front of those forward-curled shoulders. Still reverent, like an attendant in front of his liege. A silent agreement that he'll stay. ]
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Astarion reaches out to tuck a strand of wet hair behind Iorveth's ear. His fingers come away muddy.
Softly: ] You look handsome blood-splattered.
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(Why wallow in his own pain? It's the only instinct he's trusted until he met Astarion; he's a thing made of pain, and that's what the world demands of him.)
He feels the soft sift of Astarion's fingers over his hair, his skin, and it's only after the touch lifts that Iorveth also lifts his mask of impassivity. All the sharpness he'd worn to keep the bigots away slips, giving him more space for softness, affection, and more prominently, exhaustion. ]
The humans must have hit your head harder than I thought. [ A joke, tired but gentle. ] I should go back and kill them all.
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If this is any indication, [ he says, swiping some sticky blood from Iorveth's cheek with his thumb, ] you've already thinned out the horde considerably.
[ Iorveth must have slain more men in one day than they have in the last tenday. A massacre, by most accounts. He's quiet for a moment, images flitting through his head of Iorveth swimming through that river, setting that fire, killing those men. ]
I should thank you. You came for me.
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It guts Iorveth to think that he took niceness away from Astarion. Of all the things that have made him furious tonight, that ranks at the top of list. The only thing keeping Iorveth from suggesting that the Teatime with Gale option still exists is the impossible notion that perhaps... just perhaps, maybe, Astarion doesn't regret staying here, with him. That this is actually an active choice that Astarion is still making, because that's more sacred than what Iorveth feels.
So. He tilts his head, near-uncomprehending. He doesn't want to touch Astarion because he is, quite frankly, incredibly disgusting in his current state, but he does edge closer. ]
You wouldn't thank me for breathing. [ To the tune of "in what world would I have done anything else???" ] I would burn the world for you－ how many times do you need me to say it?
[ A huff, mock-annoyed. His lips curl upwards, betraying his exasperated amusement. ] Blindsided by the pretty women, were you?
[ Affectionate. Another way to say "I'm not mad". ]
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They might have been more wily than I gave them credit for.
[ Or maybe he's less wily than he gave himself credit for. He should have been more careful. The wine had seemed harmless, but he should have made an excuse not to drink it instead. He'd said he wanted to protect Iorveth, but instead he put Iorveth in danger. ]
I won't make such a mistake again.
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That, and. Well. Iorveth thinks that he might actually be literally sick, in terms of health. Exhausted, sleep-deprived, hungry (those fucking humans could have waited until he got to eat the rabbit that Astarion had so kindly fetched for him)― the burnt and raw skin under his now-wet bandages might be more than a little inflamed now, and wearing damp clothes hasn't been the best for regulating his fluctuating body temperature. Fighting a wave of dizziness that threatens to skew his balance, Iorveth divests himself of his ruined shirt, wiping his face and hair with the cleanest parts of it before he tosses it aside to rot. Now he looks less like a serial killer and more like a shirtless vagrant. Oh well. ]
Mm. [ A vague hum, as he shifts into a strategic position to block Astarion from the impending sun. ] Try, for my dwindling sanity's sake.
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[ Astarion raises an eyebrow, huffing out a dry laugh. ]
My love, I thought we both knew. You haven't any sanity left to dwindle.
[ He hasn't for as long as Astarion has known him, but somehow he's become even more insane than the perpetually angry-looking wood elf with an ugly headscarf that Astarion met on the beach. Astarion doesn't mind, of course. Insane is hot. If not for Iorveth's insanity, he would never have helped Astarion free himself of Cazador, he never would have let a vampire drink his blood, and he definitely wouldn't have asked an undead being with no prospects to travel with him. Insanity works in Astarion's favor.
They're in no condition to cuddle, but Astarion reaches out to touch the tips of their fingers together. ]
You do look handsome, [ he says, because Iorveth always looks handsome in his eyes, ] but you also look as if you've been trampled by a horse. [ Handsomely. ] Rest. I'll keep watch until nightfall.
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