[ 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.
[ Funny. Astarion tells Iorveth that he has no more sanity left to lose, but he's also telling Iorveth that he looks handsome. A deranged observation, even when Iorveth doesn't look like he just came out of a boxing match with a minotaur.
He's a mess. Sweating lightly from the promise of a fever, mottled bruises obscuring some of the finer patterns of the tattoo snaking down his torso, cut and scraped and matted. He doesn't protest rest, even though he'd like to. ]
...We're farther from Waterdeep than I would've liked to be, [ is a soft murmur, single eye closing as he lists against the nearest flat surface. He curls his fingers where they're touching Astarion's, turning it into a proper handhold. ] It'll be a full night of travel. Less if we had a boat or a horse.
[ The boat option is out; the horse one too, unless they get really lucky. Of course Iorveth is trying to calculate routes even when he's told to rest, though－ terminally unable to keep his overactive mind from planning and plotting. His voice starts to slur. ]
I'll send the wizard a message, [ he murmurs, and it's the last thing he manages before he conks out, limp and unguarded with the rays of morning sunlight starting to warm his back. ]
[ The day comes and goes without incident. Astarion stays in his hole, only able to appreciate the sunlight from a distance. Once, his hand ventures out into the light for just a moment, but white-hot singeing causes him to yank it back. He broods for a while, and then he does something unthinkable: considers their next steps. Gale is an archwizard, or at least he used to be. What are the chances he's been hiding a sunlight ring this whole time?
Low. Gale isn't cruel. If he had the means to ease a friend's burdens, he would.
The sun sets, and he presses the back of his cold hand against Iorveth's forehead. It feels warm, but he always feels warm in comparison to Astarion, so it's difficult to say whether he's caught an infection or not. Gently, he nudges Iorveth's foot with his own. ]
[ The cool touch to his forehead rouses Iorveth, pulling him out of his deep void of unconsciousness. Less a trance and more a shutdown, his features slack, making him look younger than he prefers to present himself as.
Groggy, Iorveth lifts his head and nuzzles into the cold palm, grateful for the difference in temperature. ]
Unwell.
[ Bluntly, with his tired tinge of exasperation aimed inwards. Annoyed by his body not cooperating with him when he needs it to the most. ] But I can still walk, and we should be on our way.
[ He can collapse when they have a roof over their heads, not before then. He drags himself upright, slinging his bow across his bare back. ]
[ Astarion frowns. He's no healer, but he does know that if Iorveth is feeling unwell, pushing himself might make it worse. Perhaps they'll make it to Waterdeep, but then Iorveth will fall down in the middle of the street. Or perhaps they won't make it to Waterdeep at all, because Astarion can't imagine abandoning him if he's too ill to travel.
But he also knows Iorveth, and he knows that nothing he can say will stop Iorveth from pushing himself when he shouldn't, so he crawls out from under the stone bridge into the chilly night. ]
If you say so, [ sounds distinctly disbelieving. ]
If you collapse, I'm not carrying you on my back. [ Not because he doesn't love Iorveth, but because, well, he's very weak. ] One does wish they had a Karlach at a time like this. Hells, I'd even settle for a Halsin.
[ Settle for is funny, and so Iorveth laughs despite himself. ]
Quiet. You'll invoke him.
[ As if he might come striding out from behind one of the broken marble columns littering this elven mausoleum. Iorveth glances towards Astarion and takes a moment to fuss with him, combing dirt and dust from his hair, patting dried flakes of blood from his collar. Satisfied with the results, Iorveth takes stock of their surroundings and makes the executive decision to head vaguely towards where he believes Waterdeep to be－ he'll course correct along the way.
As he starts walking: ] If only I knew how to Wild Shape.
[ Not a real desire, but an invitation for Astarion to imagine him as a sullen, one-eyed creature capable of carrying Astarion on his back. An owlbear? Not a regular bear, Halsin has the monopoly on that. ]
[ It's almost inconceivable how satisfying it is to be groomed by Iorveth. It's nothing yet everything, a tiny gesture that makes him feel a gigantic surge of affection. Iorveth didn't fuss with himself, but he took the time to make Astarion's appearance tidy—as tidy as it can be, when he has little bruises all over from being dragged through the tavern and tossed into a cellar—because he knows that Astarion cares about it. For a moment, he can think of nothing but kissing Iorveth's wonderful face, but he tempers the urge, uncertain if his affections would be welcomed by a dirty, disheveled, feverish Iorveth.
He falls into step with Iorveth, following blindly. A testament to the trust Iorveth has earned. Like a lost puppy, Astarion would trail behind him into the hells (with some reluctance). ]
And here I thought you already knew. How else would I have a little fox curled up at my feet every night?
[ They only need to endure this journey to Waterdeep, and then Astarion can soak in a hot bath and buy some new clothes (courtesy of Gale, who will act as their inn and wallet for the foreseeable temporary future). This goal is the only thing keeping Iorveth doggedly moving, bullheaded as usual when it comes to something that needs accomplishing.
He spares another breath to laugh again, though. ]
I'm hardly "little".
[ And he definitely doesn't curl by Astarion's feet. Very cute and very delusional of Astarion to think that he's not the small spoon between the two of them. Iorveth says as much. ]
And, the way I see it― [ Reaching back to take Astarion's forearm, he guides the both of them away from a boggy pit. ] ―I'm the one holding an oversized cat to my chest every night.
[ He considers himself very lucky. He'll be even luckier if they can survive the night and wind up in a bed where they can actually huddle without feeling absolutely disgusting; the thought spurs him to press on, weaving and occasionally stopping whenever he thinks he hears something larger than a bird or squirrel in their vicinity, mindful of humans who may or may not still be pursuing them. He's sure that they have their hands full trying to regroup after having half of their village burned down, but he can never be too certain.
On they go. Along the way, Iorveth uses Animal Friendship to coax a sparrow onto his shoulder, but finds that he really has no more energy left to cast Speak to Animals. He winds up not being able to send Gale the message of their arrival, and is left to contend with a very affectionate bird that keeps nipping at his ear for attention. Life is hell. ]
[ The comparison to a cat—or any sort of animal—would rankle if it weren't coming from Iorveth, but it is, so Astarion knows it's meant affectionately and not disparagingly. That makes it pleasing rather than irritating, and he scoffs and rolls his eyes in a way that suggests he likes it but will never admit such a thing. ]
Don't expend your energy, darling.
[ He reaches out to touch Iorveth's back, but the sparrow looks at him sideways and he recoils. Eugh, nature. Perhaps it knows that there's something deeply unnatural about him, or perhaps it can tell that he'd sink his teeth into it if it weren't perched on Iorveth right now. ]
It's not as if Gale will turn us away.
[ Probably. Maybe. In fact, he very much could. It's hardly been any time at all since he returned to Waterdeep, but maybe he's already resumed his life there as an illustrious wizard. Maybe two bedraggled elves at his doorstep would be too much trouble.
No, Astarion thinks, shaking his head. Gale is nauseatingly loyal. He might balk at their travel-worn appearances, but he won't make them leave. (Still, there's a nagging little doubt in the back of his head: what in the world will they do if he does?) ]
He'll be overjoyed to see us, I'm sure, [ he adds in a voice that suggests he's convincing himself as much as Iorveth. ] Life must be so dull without us around.
[ Iorveth is also relying on Gale's willingness to give them shelter until the events of Flotsam die down to a background murmur, but there is that small-but-not-nonexistent possibility that they might get turned away. Or, well, that Iorveth might get turned away for being the terrorist at the center of the rumor mill. Consorting with a known criminal may not be the best for Gale's recovering reputation.
So: ] He'd not turn you away. [ Iorveth assumes. Gale likes Astarion, this much he knows for certain. As for Gale liking him, well.
...That's a tossup. Again, Iorveth assumes. He's fond of the wizard in his own way, but he wasn't exactly always kind to Gale in casual situations. ]
You could inject some much-needed excitement back into his life. [ Is a corroboration of Astarion's assertion. ] He never said so, but I suspect he enjoyed it when you pulled on his metaphorical pigtails.
[ You, Iorveth says, and Astarion hates the way it sounds. It's much like how he'd said Astarion would have no trouble getting a room at the tavern. If Gale were to turn only Iorveth away, Astarion would have to threaten drastic measures. Like shaving that beard of his, perhaps.
None of this needs to be said, though, because Gale won't turn either of them away. It's a requirement for their plans that he doesn't, so Astarion won't entertain another possibility. (Oh, gods, he really hopes Gale hasn't gone on a post-adventure vacation. Then again, maybe Tara would be willing to let them inside in his stead.) ]
Yes, I did always suspect that he carried a torch for me.
[ Conceited until the bitter end. ]
Along with Wyll, of course, and Shadowheart, and Karlach— [ He rattles off the names of all the people he's convinced are obsessed with him, which is pretty much everyone. Minsc, at least, is spared. ] Oh, and I once caught Jaheira giving me a very saucy look.
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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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He's a mess. Sweating lightly from the promise of a fever, mottled bruises obscuring some of the finer patterns of the tattoo snaking down his torso, cut and scraped and matted. He doesn't protest rest, even though he'd like to. ]
...We're farther from Waterdeep than I would've liked to be, [ is a soft murmur, single eye closing as he lists against the nearest flat surface. He curls his fingers where they're touching Astarion's, turning it into a proper handhold. ] It'll be a full night of travel. Less if we had a boat or a horse.
[ The boat option is out; the horse one too, unless they get really lucky. Of course Iorveth is trying to calculate routes even when he's told to rest, though－ terminally unable to keep his overactive mind from planning and plotting. His voice starts to slur. ]
I'll send the wizard a message, [ he murmurs, and it's the last thing he manages before he conks out, limp and unguarded with the rays of morning sunlight starting to warm his back. ]
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Low. Gale isn't cruel. If he had the means to ease a friend's burdens, he would.
The sun sets, and he presses the back of his cold hand against Iorveth's forehead. It feels warm, but he always feels warm in comparison to Astarion, so it's difficult to say whether he's caught an infection or not. Gently, he nudges Iorveth's foot with his own. ]
How do you feel?
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Groggy, Iorveth lifts his head and nuzzles into the cold palm, grateful for the difference in temperature. ]
Unwell.
[ Bluntly, with his tired tinge of exasperation aimed inwards. Annoyed by his body not cooperating with him when he needs it to the most. ] But I can still walk, and we should be on our way.
[ He can collapse when they have a roof over their heads, not before then. He drags himself upright, slinging his bow across his bare back. ]
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But he also knows Iorveth, and he knows that nothing he can say will stop Iorveth from pushing himself when he shouldn't, so he crawls out from under the stone bridge into the chilly night. ]
If you say so, [ sounds distinctly disbelieving. ]
If you collapse, I'm not carrying you on my back. [ Not because he doesn't love Iorveth, but because, well, he's very weak. ] One does wish they had a Karlach at a time like this. Hells, I'd even settle for a Halsin.
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Quiet. You'll invoke him.
[ As if he might come striding out from behind one of the broken marble columns littering this elven mausoleum. Iorveth glances towards Astarion and takes a moment to fuss with him, combing dirt and dust from his hair, patting dried flakes of blood from his collar. Satisfied with the results, Iorveth takes stock of their surroundings and makes the executive decision to head vaguely towards where he believes Waterdeep to be－ he'll course correct along the way.
As he starts walking: ] If only I knew how to Wild Shape.
[ Not a real desire, but an invitation for Astarion to imagine him as a sullen, one-eyed creature capable of carrying Astarion on his back. An owlbear? Not a regular bear, Halsin has the monopoly on that. ]
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He falls into step with Iorveth, following blindly. A testament to the trust Iorveth has earned. Like a lost puppy, Astarion would trail behind him into the hells (with some reluctance). ]
And here I thought you already knew. How else would I have a little fox curled up at my feet every night?
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He spares another breath to laugh again, though. ]
I'm hardly "little".
[ And he definitely doesn't curl by Astarion's feet. Very cute and very delusional of Astarion to think that he's not the small spoon between the two of them. Iorveth says as much. ]
And, the way I see it― [ Reaching back to take Astarion's forearm, he guides the both of them away from a boggy pit. ] ―I'm the one holding an oversized cat to my chest every night.
[ He considers himself very lucky. He'll be even luckier if they can survive the night and wind up in a bed where they can actually huddle without feeling absolutely disgusting; the thought spurs him to press on, weaving and occasionally stopping whenever he thinks he hears something larger than a bird or squirrel in their vicinity, mindful of humans who may or may not still be pursuing them. He's sure that they have their hands full trying to regroup after having half of their village burned down, but he can never be too certain.
On they go. Along the way, Iorveth uses Animal Friendship to coax a sparrow onto his shoulder, but finds that he really has no more energy left to cast Speak to Animals. He winds up not being able to send Gale the message of their arrival, and is left to contend with a very affectionate bird that keeps nipping at his ear for attention. Life is hell. ]
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Don't expend your energy, darling.
[ He reaches out to touch Iorveth's back, but the sparrow looks at him sideways and he recoils. Eugh, nature. Perhaps it knows that there's something deeply unnatural about him, or perhaps it can tell that he'd sink his teeth into it if it weren't perched on Iorveth right now. ]
It's not as if Gale will turn us away.
[ Probably. Maybe. In fact, he very much could. It's hardly been any time at all since he returned to Waterdeep, but maybe he's already resumed his life there as an illustrious wizard. Maybe two bedraggled elves at his doorstep would be too much trouble.
No, Astarion thinks, shaking his head. Gale is nauseatingly loyal. He might balk at their travel-worn appearances, but he won't make them leave. (Still, there's a nagging little doubt in the back of his head: what in the world will they do if he does?) ]
He'll be overjoyed to see us, I'm sure, [ he adds in a voice that suggests he's convincing himself as much as Iorveth. ] Life must be so dull without us around.
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So: ] He'd not turn you away. [ Iorveth assumes. Gale likes Astarion, this much he knows for certain. As for Gale liking him, well.
...That's a tossup. Again, Iorveth assumes. He's fond of the wizard in his own way, but he wasn't exactly always kind to Gale in casual situations. ]
You could inject some much-needed excitement back into his life. [ Is a corroboration of Astarion's assertion. ] He never said so, but I suspect he enjoyed it when you pulled on his metaphorical pigtails.
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None of this needs to be said, though, because Gale won't turn either of them away. It's a requirement for their plans that he doesn't, so Astarion won't entertain another possibility. (Oh, gods, he really hopes Gale hasn't gone on a post-adventure vacation. Then again, maybe Tara would be willing to let them inside in his stead.) ]
Yes, I did always suspect that he carried a torch for me.
[ Conceited until the bitter end. ]
Along with Wyll, of course, and Shadowheart, and Karlach— [ He rattles off the names of all the people he's convinced are obsessed with him, which is pretty much everyone. Minsc, at least, is spared. ] Oh, and I once caught Jaheira giving me a very saucy look.
[ Well, it might have been indigestion. ]
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