[ Gatherings, sure. During solstices and the turn of seasons, when they could still afford to sing and dance. But those weren't staged in grand ballrooms lined with food-laden tables, or however it is that soirees are set up; again, Iorveth tries to stitch together what he's seen and learned of Baldurian culture, and attempts to slot himself into this hypothetical scenario.
He huffs, laugh-adjacent. ] I imagine I'd be a nuisance to all the guests who'd want to dance with you. Or whatever it is that you do at these functions. [ Do members of the Baldurian nobility dance? They all seem so stiff and joyless, from the little he's observed of them. ]
...You'd be the prettiest thing in a room full of pretty things. [ Reaching sideways with his free hand to comb through Astarion's hair, Iorveth wonders if that isn't the future that Astarion should have. Cosmopolitan and glamorous, with people that would kill to speak three words to him. ]
[ A flower turning toward the sun, Astarion leans into Iorveth's hand surreptitiously, embarrassed to show such obvious docility in public but unable to resist the urge altogether. ]
I'd turn them all down, of course. Brutally.
[ In this fantasy, Astarion may be faithful, but he's still breaking hearts left and right. What's the fun in being good-looking if you can't use it for ill? He grins, the picture of Iorveth stuffed into some stiff ensemble in his head. Slicked back hair, maybe. A bejeweled eye patch? The possibilities are endless. ]
I'd tell them that the only one I want to dance with is my dashing and mysterious companion.
[ Who'd probably be standing around looking miserable, at least until Astarion plied him with enough wine. ]
[ So endearing, it's almost unbearable. Like having a cat that's been wary of touch finally open up enough to curl near his side. Iorveth brushes Astarion's bangs to the side, following its natural waves. Enamored, as always, by how soft it all feels; the pointed ears peeking from the sea of silver is just another detail among the many that he likes.
Gods, he's really lost it. Mooning over someone sitting right next to him as if he hasn't seen them in half an age, when they've spent the entire day together. Iorveth keeps stroking Astarion's hair, aware that the gesture is as self-indulgent as it is affectionate. ]
You'd make me the most hated elf in the city.
[ "Who's that sullen-looking asshole, and why him", the hypothetical nobility would murmur amongst themselves. The thought makes Iorveth laugh, brief but loud enough to sound like a proper ha instead of his usual soft huffs. ]
You'd also be picking everyone's pockets while they're busy glaring daggers at me, I expect.
[ Fondly. If he's being honest, he doesn't entirely hate it when Astarion misbehaves. ]
[ Not daggers, he doesn't think. Perhaps a few furrowed brows, like the passersby now who glance over their way with expressions of confusion, trying to work out how in the world this scary-looking elf ever ended up petting what looks like a spoiled aristocrat in public. Sometimes Astarion wonders the same; how did he ever charm Iorveth into liking him? And, gods, how did Iorveth ever ensorcell him into such pathetic adoration? ]
Don't worry. I'd share the haul, of course.
[ The smile on his face turns impish, as it always does when the subject of trickery and underhandedness arises. As the sun begins to disappear behind the skyline, its last rays glint mischievously off of Astarion's fangs. ]
That's my greatest desire, you know. You, me, and a pile of, ah, liberated coin.
[ It should feel slightly more ignoble to be slotted alongside base desires like silk and velvet and coin, but Iorveth still can't believe that Astarion actually wants him for the long haul. Surreal. He'll need as much time to process being desired as Astarion will need to process being loved, Iorveth figures.
Day gives its place to night, and shadows stretch over the defined features of Astarion's face. His eyes seem to glow in lowlight, striking but unnatural: a sign of his turning, as obvious as the two fang-shaped indents in his neck.
Iorveth cranes forward to press his lips over that old scar. Astarion probably won't like it, but Iorveth still wants to put his mouth on every part of Astarion's body. ]
An eminently fulfillable desire. [ He murmurs. ] You'll have to think of another to replace it, once it's indulged.
[ "I want to make you happy", in vaguer terms. It's wild that Iorveth means it, and it's even wilder that he's willing to dress up to go to some stupid soiree if that'll give Astarion something to smile about. He tucks that idea in the back of his mind, as he wonders if the two red lights peering at them from behind a row of hedges is lanternlight or something entirely more sinister. ]
[ It's true. Astarion detests the reminder of his bite mark, a glaring blemish on otherwise flawless skin, a symbol of all the ways that Cazador irreversibly changed him. Iorveth's warm lips feel good against his neck in the cool breeze, though—and tickle a little, although he tries not to let it show—so he responds by grasping Iorveth's collar with a hand and leaning in. Their noses brush, and Astarion can feel the heat of Iorveth's breath against his face; his eyes start to slip shut, and then—
Out of the corner of his eye, something red and very familiar. ]
I smell a rat rooting around in the dark.
[ After relinquishing Iorveth's collar, Astarion stands and takes a few steps toward the periphery of the circus, where the light is dimmer. Eyes narrowed and mouth dragged down into a scowl, he peers out into the darkness. Two blood-red eyes. The silhouette of an ugly haircut. The soft squeak of cheap leather.
He clenches his fists and stomps, looking every inch the petulant sibling whose little brother has come to ruin his day. ]
You just can't help going where you aren't wanted, can you? Stop skulking around and bring that hideous outfit into the light.
[ Under the glow of the lamplight emerges a figure, too broad to be an elf. Chin-length blond hair curled up at the ends, pale skin, and a high, frilly collar that brushes against two puncture marks.
"Affable as ever, brother," snarks Petras, his bright eyes flicking over to Iorveth. Astarion watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. He's hungry. No, he's ravenous — of course he is, after the lifetime of starvation he's had.
With an emphatic snap of his fingers in front of Petras's face, he snaps, ] Don't look at him like he's a leg of mutton. Find someone else to eat. [ Which he can, now that Cazador is dead. Does he know, or is he still expecting Cazador to appear any minute and punish his ill-behaved spawn? ] You're welcome for that, by the way.
[ It's a beautiful transition, from relaxed to coiled. For all the things that Iorveth found repellent about Astarion in the beginning, Astarion's ability to spring to action was never one of them: it was the first thing Iorveth'd noticed about him that felt real and unmasked. A raw nerve.
What Iorveth finds less appealing is the way that the other spawn looks at him, with a hunger made mindless by decades of deprivation. Not quite as gaunt and wraithlike as the captives held in cages under Cazador's palace, but adjacent. He feels those blood-red eyes fix on the two red marks that he'd earned himself in Sharess' Caress, and feels compelled to draw his collar up to hide them better.
"You're welcome?", Petras whispers in disbelief. "You betrayed us. We were promised our freedom, an eternity of indulgence. And you destroyed it for..." A wave in Iorveth's direction. "...For a petty blood-bag!"
That statement speaks volumes. Even at his hungriest, at his most desperate, Astarion had never struck Iorveth as the sort of vampire who saw his campmates as food. Petras, obviously, is made of weaker stuff. ]
I could concede to being a blood-bag. But in all certainty, my blood is far from petty.
[ A wry joke, delivered on the edge of a sharp glare. Very rude of Petras to assume that Aen Seidhe blood isn't incredibly precious. He could take Petras' head for that kind of insult. ]
[ The wave of irritation hits Astarion so heavily that he doesn't even have it in him to quip about how Iorveth is actually a rather exquisite blood bag. He throws his hands up, huffing. ]
Oh, please.
[ Wound down for the evening, the circus has thinned out, but there are still enough customers milling about to shoot raised eyebrows in their direction. It must look like some sort of familial quarrel to them, and in a way it is. Astarion lowers his voice to a hiss. ]
You should be thanking me! It's only because of me that you're still alive to complain.
[ "Stop telling lies," Petras says. "The master's Black Mass would have elevated us all, but you had to go and ruin it. Selfish, like always." Astarion can't argue against selfishness, but it rankles all the same. Sourly, he turns to Iorveth and scoffs. ]
Unfortunately, brains don't run in the family. [ His own red eyes slide back to Petras. ] And neither do looks.
[ Iorveth can only hope that there are no eavesdroppers around, but then again, an entire clown was killed and dismembered in this circus without anyone raising so much as an alarm for, presumably, days. He has his doubts about how attentive anyone here is of their surroundings, let alone a bunch of guests who seem to be bickering.
So. Bluntly, without much in the way of consideration: ] We could kill him. [ Iorveth ignores how Petras boggles; the spawn might have had an opportunity to be good-looking if he had more taste or self-control, not that Iorveth cares in the least. ] But that would leave us with hundreds more of your siblings and non-siblings to get rid of. A troublesome precedent to set.
[ As if they're talking politics. Iorveth is practical as anything, arms folded and head tipped in that slightly commanding way he assumes when he's trying to decide something.
Petras, with his mouth still agape: "you realize that I'm right here." Again, Iorveth pays him little mind, and levels his focus on Astarion with the same half-deference he'd showed him back at the manor. A silent "what say you?" ]
[ Ugh. The hundreds—maybe thousands—of spawn still rotting underneath the palace. Astarion's expression turns dark for a split second, the memory of their pale, gaunt faces flashing in his mind. Then, just as quickly, he perks up, regarding Petras appraisingly. ]
Mmm. [ A thoughtful hum. ] Perhaps I should kill you. It's the least I deserve after having to keep your company for so long.
[ "You always were a brat," Petras shoots back, and that's something Astarion really can't argue. ]
We could tie you up and leave you in the sun.
[ Petras scowls. "We would have all been able to walk in the sun if not for you." Another hungry look Iorveth's way, then, "Both of you. You've condemned us to the dark with what you did to the master." ]
Ugh! [ Astarion crosses his arms, frustration pouring out of him. ] He was lying, obviously! Are you really so dense?
[ Hesitation flashes in those incandescent eyes, if only for a moment. "I— no, he promised. He said that it would be what we've been waiting for all these years." ]
Oh, well, if he promised. We all know he's never broken one of those.
[ Family business. Iorveth probably has no business weighing in, but he offers his unwanted opinion anyway. ]
Cazador was a depraved creature, from the sound of it. The kind that would have relished in your despair as he took all hope from you, one final time.
[ Too on-the-nose, probably. Petras whirls on Iorveth and bares his teeth, visibly distressed by the reality closing in on him. It's a different sort of tragedy from Astarion's, like watching someone find out that what they believed to be gold was just yellow-painted rocks.
"What would you know?!" Petras hisses. "You're just food."
Iorveth bears the hungry eyes on his jugular again, and frowns as Petras turns back to Astarion.
"Even if what you're saying is true, it doesn't change the fact that you got what you wanted, and the rest of us got nothing." Red eyes narrow threateningly, sliding back and forth from Astarion to Iorveth. "Let me drain your blood bag, and then we can be even." ]
[ 'Just food'. Astarion grinds his teeth, every inch bristling like a puffed-up cat. ]
Nothing? Don't be stupid.
[ Were Astarion in Petras's place, the only thing that would have upset him about Cazador's death would be that he didn't get to do it himself. Petras is younger, though, impressionable. He hasn't had his will systematically broken down over centuries. Whatever Cazador told him, he foolishly believed. It makes sense that he's heartbroken over losing the future he was promised, even if it was never going to come to fruition. Unfortunately, Astarion has already used up all of his finite empathy.
He takes a step closer to Petras, his voice soft but brimming with barely concealed disdain. ]
You're free, brother. Thanks to me. [ He glances at Iorveth. 'Just food'. ] Thanks to us.
[ "Free to indulge in thinking creatures, like you've been doing—" Petras starts, gesturing toward Iorveth. ]
Yes. Free to kill and consume whoever you want. [ A shadow passes over his face. The thought of Petras's fangs in Iorveth's throat—even worse, Iorveth's blood in Petras's mouth—makes his stomach churn. ] Just not him, or I really will roast you.
[ Petras takes a step back, his handsome features pinched into a decidedly unattractive expression of displeasure. "You never did share well with others." ]
Mm, no. And if I find out you've been trying to play with my toys, you'll long for Godey's gentle touch.
[ For a long moment, they stare at each other, blood-red to blood-red. Silent communication between two people with years of unpleasant history behind them. Astarion livens up, then, clasping his hands behind his back. ]
Don't look so glum. We left a gift for you underneath the palace. Thousands of new friends.
[ It rankles somewhat, being referred to as food or toys, but Iorveth lets Astarion handle the brunt of the conversation after his input is summarily shut down by Petras. Astarion seems to have the matter under control, and more importantly, Petras is his sibling to chide and decide the fate of. He'd know how to speak to him better than Iorveth does.
So, when Iorveth finally opens his mouth again, it's to address Astarion. Situated beside him in the dim of this mostly-unlighted spot of circus, he tries to read his companion's expression. ]
Thousands of starving new friends. [ Gaunt and haunted, ready to sink their teeth into the nearest living creature with a pulse. ] I have no love for this city, but it would be calamitous if Cazador's victims found their freedom here.
[ Petras twists his expression into what looks like a contemptuous sneer, but it's obvious that the idea of freedom is finally sinking in: he glances over his shoulder in the direction of the prison he'd been confined to for all these decades, and his face falls. The sneer fades, replaced by prolonged and involuntary confusion. Like he's at a complete loss as to what to do with all of this information.
"I'll... have to find our other brothers and sisters," he mutters. ]
[ There's just an edge of condescension to his voice. Astarion has never been popular among his siblings, but out of them all, it's he and Petras who get on the worst. The fact that if not for Astarion he'd have already tried to rip out Iorveth's throat with his teeth doesn't help matters. ]
Run along and find the others. One of them will know what to do with those feral creatures Cazador created.
[ Maybe. Astarion certainly doesn't know what to do with them, and he'd much rather pawn off the responsibility onto Dalyria or perhaps Leon. How could he look those wretched things in the face, knowing that he put them there? Worse, he'd have to tell them that they aren't allowed to eat anyone in the Gate after years, decades, centuries of starvation.
No. Let that be someone else's problem. Petras opens his mouth to speak, and Astarion cuts him off with an emphatic, ] I said run along.
[ Petras turns with a scowl, shoulders hunched in annoyance. Just as quickly as he'd shooed him away, Astarion calls out, ] Wait. [ Petras doesn't turn to face them again, but he does pause. It's good enough. ] Do clean up after your meal. It would be embarrassing if a monster hunter followed a trail of blood right to you.
[ Cazador had played them against each other. He'd had them tattle on each other like children, made them torture each other in horrendous ways. After all of that, Astarion still can't help but feel a small kinship with the other spawn. Siblings not by heredity, but siblings all the same.
Petras doesn't reply, but that also means that he doesn't argue. As he stalks off into the night to find a poor, unsuspecting victim, Astarion turns away and collapses onto the stone perch again, shoulders sagging in exhaustion. Seeing his siblings always makes him feel like his old self again, peevish and tense. ]
The gall to think I'd let his filthy fangs anywhere near you.
[ Hm. Iorveth watches Petras scurry away into the night, his desperation far more graceless than Astarion's had been, all those tendays ago near the Emerald Grove.
And, well. Maybe this is the wrong takeaway to have, but seeing Astarion interacting with his siblings casts him in a new light. It gives slight context to his interactions with the younger members of the party, the way he heckles and jibes with Shadowheart or Wyll. Some may argue that Astarion has the spoiled air of a youngest child, but this conversation with Petras has re-contextualized things for Iorveth.
Still standing, Iorveth places his palm on Astarion's head. Soothing invisible headaches through touch. ]
Mm. [ Nothing needs to be said about how his blood is for Astarion and Astarion only. Too obvious. ] I didn't enjoy being called food, but I did enjoy watching you be the elder sibling.
[ The spawn problem still persists, but seeing Astarion say "I said run along" wrapped the interaction in a nice bow. Iorveth is a crazy person. ]
[ Wildly, Iorveth's touch does soothe his headache, the lines between his brows softening and every rigid muscle melting under the warmth of Iorveth's palm. Although he'd called Iorveth one of his toys, it's Iorveth who has the power to play with him. Like that bow of his, Iorveth can pull all of his strings like it's second nature. ]
Well, those pipsqueaks need a firm hand from someone older and wiser.
[ Of which Astarion is only one, but beggars can't be choosers. He sighs, reaching up to grab Iorveth's hand with his own. ]
I can hardly blame him. Gods, I was ravenous when I first joined up with our motley crew.
[ It feels so long ago, but in the grand scheme of his life, it was hardly any time at all. He's spent more time hungry than not. He remembers gorging himself on increasingly large woodland creatures in the hopes of sating the endless gnawing inside of him, but even that hadn't stopped his hunger. A vampire needs the blood of something thinking. Cazador created their most base need and then denied it; just another way of controlling them through cruelty. ]
I could barely think straight at first. Honestly, he can probably think of nothing but your delectable neck.
[ More new insight to add to the pile. Lifting his hand from Astarion's hair to hold hands with him, Iorveth lets his mind wander backwards in time again to their first encounter with Astarion by the ravaged beach. ]
For what it's worth, you didn't come across as such.
[ A ravenous creature looking for necks to bite, Iorveth means. Especially not his own. ]
Your nonchalance seemed feigned, but― [ Hm. He gestures with one hand, a physical manifestation of what his mind is trying to do, which is clearing the fog of what feels like distant memories. ] ―What I felt from you was detachment, not the intent to do harm.
[ Thus, Iorveth's past (and fairly constant) accusation that Astarion took nothing seriously. He was less worried about having fangs in his throat and more worried about Astarion dipping out or doing something stupid at the eleventh hour. ] Then again, even after finding out that you were a vampire, I assumed my neck was the last one you'd want to bite.
I'd even have burnt my mouth on Karlach's neck if she gave me the chance.
[ Desire and attraction hadn't played into it. It's different now that he has a steady source of blood, but back then, he'd been desperate. A vampire bereft of blood has a yawning chasm in their very soul. Two centuries of deprivation had left him muddy-headed, weak. Cazador's intention, he's sure. Someone who can barely form thoughts is easier to manipulate. ]
I didn't want to hurt any of you. I was just... hungry.
[ It sounds a rather weak excuse now. He frowns. ]
But the last thing I needed was for you all to decide I was an insatiable monster and throw me out.
[ They'd have been within their rights to. Most people wouldn't sleep soundly knowing there was a bloodsucking creature of the night the next tent over. He shrugs, then presses his mouth to Iorveth's wrist. ]
It hardly matters now. There's no one else I'd rather sink my teeth into.
[ And there it is again, the matter of Astarion's heart. Two hundred years of enduring every form of torture possible, and he still has the ability to say things like "I didn't want to hurt any of you". Iorveth doesn't know if he could've said the same of himself, if he'd woken after the Nautiloid crash and had hands extended to him by humans he'd recognized as being from the North; even if he needed the strength in numbers, he might have killed them all and taken his chances alone.
Cool lips touch at his pulse, and Iorveth gentles. He motions for Astarion to make space so that he can sit beside him again. Closer, for more visibility. ]
It matters― to know you. I'd not known then what I do now.
[ Obviously. But Iorveth always feels too much, and wants too much: he wouldn't be who he is if he didn't, against everyone's wishes or warnings. ]
[ Astarion scoots aside, making room for Iorveth's long limbs. Not too much room; he makes sure their knees touch. For so long, touch has felt like a punishment, but it's addictive now that it feels good. Happiness on demand, little jolts of joy shooting through him from their point of contact. ]
Yes, you had no idea then how charming I can be.
[ On one hand, it's irritating that Iorveth never once seemed enticed by Astarion's wiles. On the other, it's ridiculously appealing that Iorveth was so resistant to him. A hard-won indulgence. Someone who really sees him and not only tolerates it but likes it. Maybe even loves it, if he allows himself to think such things.
He laughs under his breath. ]
You know, I used to fantasize about meeting someone like you. [ Not exactly like Iorveth, obviously. His fantasies vexed him far less. ] —A long time ago, of course.
[ Back when he still had fantasies. Even those died, after a while. ]
[ Knee against knee, shoulder to shoulder. Iorveth has never fancied himself touch-starved, but he does relish how secure he feels in the presence of someone who definitively wants him to be there. It's not duty or purpose or even wisdom that's keeping him with Astarion. His affection is without plan, rootless: it's everything he thought he would never be, and it's thrilling in its own way.
Pressed close to the cool body next to him, Iorveth watches the last of the young children leave the circus grounds. Yawning little faces, tired from a day of overexcitement. Iorveth makes eye contact with one of them by happenstance, and the little tiefling girl who's caught his notice smiles a sleepy smile at him before shuffling over to a sister or a friend, eager to find her own hand to hold.
Iorveth, again, is glad that Astarion didn't go through with the rite. He doesn't imagine that the Vampire Ascendant would have come here with him. ]
What else did you fantasize about?
[ On the topic of wanting to know. Everything that'd been denied to Astarion, big or small, Iorveth wants to grant over time. ]
Naughty boy, [ he teases. ] Some of them aren't appropriate to talk about in public.
[ A lie. Not a single one of his fantasies back then had anything to do with sex, save for maybe the daydream of cutting off the hands of whoever dared to touch him. His true fantasies are embarrassing enough, though, that he slips into deflection and provocation easily.
He peers at Iorveth's face, watching the way the lanterns' light dances on his skin, his eye shining. Even more embarrassing than his fantasies then is his desires now. He wants Iorveth to know his mortifying secrets, he realizes. Just as Iorveth wants to see him, he wants to be seen. ]
I suppose... [ The words stick in the back of his throat, difficult to get out. It's against his every survival instinct to share something personal so freely. He half-expects to be laughed at and derided, even when the rational part of his brain knows that Iorveth would never be so cruel. ] I suppose I imagined that someone like you would whisk me away from there.
[ There's nothing more humiliating than the desire to be rescued. He'd felt so helpless then that even the fantasy of saving himself was too farfetched to consider. ]
And I'd drink fresh blood from a jewel-encrusted goblet and wear only silk for the rest of my eternal life, [ is a frivolous addition. A way of sanding down the edges on his vulnerability. All the same, it's true. Astarion is nothing if not vain, and even on his darkest days he longed for nice things. ]
A probing question from the man who wouldn't tell me his greatest desire.
[ Iorveth shifts on his portion of the ledge, reaching to haul Astarion's legs up over his knees and turn him sideways, curled and tilted against Iorveth's chest. One arm loops around Astarion's waist, but leaves enough room for him to wriggle away if the position disagrees with him.
A soft touch, for a bittersweet confession. The fact of the matter is that Astarion would have still been left in shackles if not for the Illithid abduction; he might even have been dead by now, consumed by the ritual that they'd interrupted only a handful of hours ago. No one was ever going to come to whisk Astarion away, and the thought of that turns Iorveth's stomach, makes him feel more protective than he has any right feeling.
The world is so senseless. It allows elves to die by the hundreds, and for people like Astarion to suffer needlessly for centuries. It makes him so virulently angry, so acerbic, that sometimes that he thinks he'll turn to ash from all the rage he carries in his heart.
Speaking of anger, though. It segues nicely into what he desires, which he relays with quiet conviction. ]
The death of my enemies. Peace for my people. [ Obviously. The addendum is what's new. ] And your happiness, by whatever means necessary.
[ A dangerous promise, delivered by a very dangerous elf. ]
[ Astarion glances behind them to make sure Petras is well and fully gone; he'd die if he got caught canoodling. Once he's satisfied that the coast is clear, he slings an arm around Iorveth's shoulders, hand snaking around to fiddle idly with the fabric of Iorveth's collar. ]
And what of your happiness?
[ It doesn't matter, he expects Iorveth to say. He's said as much before. A ridiculous notion, in Astarion's opinion. He scoffs before Iorveth can even get a word out. ]
Be a little selfish, darling.
[ Even the death of his enemies isn't indulgent. Astarion remembers back to Henselt's assassination, the cold efficiency of it a stark contrast to the cathartic mutilation of Cazador. It had irritated him how little joy Iorveth took in the death; a man who'd taken everything from him, who'd mangled him just to be cruel, and he'd died without fanfare. ]
[ Iorveth raises a brow at the question and the subsequent accusation; after digesting both properly, he breathes a sigh-laugh. ]
What would you call this?
[ Jostling Astarion in his arms, at this. Physical punctuation. ]
A selfless man wouldn't have demanded that you give up your life in this city to stay with him. [ Which is why he'd tried not to ask, but he really didn't account for how attached he'd become. A stupid miscalculation. ] You've made me selfish, with all this wanting.
[ Nothing new. All of the stupid things he's done in the past tendays have been attributable, in one way or another, to a desire to linger by Astarion's side. Fight clubs, manacles, near-death experiences.
His expression settles to warm neutral again. His fingers drum against Astarion's waist. ]
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I've never been to a soiree.
[ Gatherings, sure. During solstices and the turn of seasons, when they could still afford to sing and dance. But those weren't staged in grand ballrooms lined with food-laden tables, or however it is that soirees are set up; again, Iorveth tries to stitch together what he's seen and learned of Baldurian culture, and attempts to slot himself into this hypothetical scenario.
He huffs, laugh-adjacent. ] I imagine I'd be a nuisance to all the guests who'd want to dance with you. Or whatever it is that you do at these functions. [ Do members of the Baldurian nobility dance? They all seem so stiff and joyless, from the little he's observed of them. ]
...You'd be the prettiest thing in a room full of pretty things. [ Reaching sideways with his free hand to comb through Astarion's hair, Iorveth wonders if that isn't the future that Astarion should have. Cosmopolitan and glamorous, with people that would kill to speak three words to him. ]
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I'd turn them all down, of course. Brutally.
[ In this fantasy, Astarion may be faithful, but he's still breaking hearts left and right. What's the fun in being good-looking if you can't use it for ill? He grins, the picture of Iorveth stuffed into some stiff ensemble in his head. Slicked back hair, maybe. A bejeweled eye patch? The possibilities are endless. ]
I'd tell them that the only one I want to dance with is my dashing and mysterious companion.
[ Who'd probably be standing around looking miserable, at least until Astarion plied him with enough wine. ]
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Gods, he's really lost it. Mooning over someone sitting right next to him as if he hasn't seen them in half an age, when they've spent the entire day together. Iorveth keeps stroking Astarion's hair, aware that the gesture is as self-indulgent as it is affectionate. ]
You'd make me the most hated elf in the city.
[ "Who's that sullen-looking asshole, and why him", the hypothetical nobility would murmur amongst themselves. The thought makes Iorveth laugh, brief but loud enough to sound like a proper ha instead of his usual soft huffs. ]
You'd also be picking everyone's pockets while they're busy glaring daggers at me, I expect.
[ Fondly. If he's being honest, he doesn't entirely hate it when Astarion misbehaves. ]
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Don't worry. I'd share the haul, of course.
[ The smile on his face turns impish, as it always does when the subject of trickery and underhandedness arises. As the sun begins to disappear behind the skyline, its last rays glint mischievously off of Astarion's fangs. ]
That's my greatest desire, you know. You, me, and a pile of, ah, liberated coin.
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Day gives its place to night, and shadows stretch over the defined features of Astarion's face. His eyes seem to glow in lowlight, striking but unnatural: a sign of his turning, as obvious as the two fang-shaped indents in his neck.
Iorveth cranes forward to press his lips over that old scar. Astarion probably won't like it, but Iorveth still wants to put his mouth on every part of Astarion's body. ]
An eminently fulfillable desire. [ He murmurs. ] You'll have to think of another to replace it, once it's indulged.
[ "I want to make you happy", in vaguer terms. It's wild that Iorveth means it, and it's even wilder that he's willing to dress up to go to some stupid soiree if that'll give Astarion something to smile about. He tucks that idea in the back of his mind, as he wonders if the two red lights peering at them from behind a row of hedges is lanternlight or something entirely more sinister. ]
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Out of the corner of his eye, something red and very familiar. ]
I smell a rat rooting around in the dark.
[ After relinquishing Iorveth's collar, Astarion stands and takes a few steps toward the periphery of the circus, where the light is dimmer. Eyes narrowed and mouth dragged down into a scowl, he peers out into the darkness. Two blood-red eyes. The silhouette of an ugly haircut. The soft squeak of cheap leather.
He clenches his fists and stomps, looking every inch the petulant sibling whose little brother has come to ruin his day. ]
You just can't help going where you aren't wanted, can you? Stop skulking around and bring that hideous outfit into the light.
[ Under the glow of the lamplight emerges a figure, too broad to be an elf. Chin-length blond hair curled up at the ends, pale skin, and a high, frilly collar that brushes against two puncture marks.
"Affable as ever, brother," snarks Petras, his bright eyes flicking over to Iorveth. Astarion watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. He's hungry. No, he's ravenous — of course he is, after the lifetime of starvation he's had.
With an emphatic snap of his fingers in front of Petras's face, he snaps, ] Don't look at him like he's a leg of mutton. Find someone else to eat. [ Which he can, now that Cazador is dead. Does he know, or is he still expecting Cazador to appear any minute and punish his ill-behaved spawn? ] You're welcome for that, by the way.
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What Iorveth finds less appealing is the way that the other spawn looks at him, with a hunger made mindless by decades of deprivation. Not quite as gaunt and wraithlike as the captives held in cages under Cazador's palace, but adjacent. He feels those blood-red eyes fix on the two red marks that he'd earned himself in Sharess' Caress, and feels compelled to draw his collar up to hide them better.
"You're welcome?", Petras whispers in disbelief. "You betrayed us. We were promised our freedom, an eternity of indulgence. And you destroyed it for..." A wave in Iorveth's direction. "...For a petty blood-bag!"
That statement speaks volumes. Even at his hungriest, at his most desperate, Astarion had never struck Iorveth as the sort of vampire who saw his campmates as food. Petras, obviously, is made of weaker stuff. ]
I could concede to being a blood-bag. But in all certainty, my blood is far from petty.
[ A wry joke, delivered on the edge of a sharp glare. Very rude of Petras to assume that Aen Seidhe blood isn't incredibly precious. He could take Petras' head for that kind of insult. ]
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Oh, please.
[ Wound down for the evening, the circus has thinned out, but there are still enough customers milling about to shoot raised eyebrows in their direction. It must look like some sort of familial quarrel to them, and in a way it is. Astarion lowers his voice to a hiss. ]
You should be thanking me! It's only because of me that you're still alive to complain.
[ "Stop telling lies," Petras says. "The master's Black Mass would have elevated us all, but you had to go and ruin it. Selfish, like always." Astarion can't argue against selfishness, but it rankles all the same. Sourly, he turns to Iorveth and scoffs. ]
Unfortunately, brains don't run in the family. [ His own red eyes slide back to Petras. ] And neither do looks.
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So. Bluntly, without much in the way of consideration: ] We could kill him. [ Iorveth ignores how Petras boggles; the spawn might have had an opportunity to be good-looking if he had more taste or self-control, not that Iorveth cares in the least. ] But that would leave us with hundreds more of your siblings and non-siblings to get rid of. A troublesome precedent to set.
[ As if they're talking politics. Iorveth is practical as anything, arms folded and head tipped in that slightly commanding way he assumes when he's trying to decide something.
Petras, with his mouth still agape: "you realize that I'm right here." Again, Iorveth pays him little mind, and levels his focus on Astarion with the same half-deference he'd showed him back at the manor. A silent "what say you?" ]
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Mmm. [ A thoughtful hum. ] Perhaps I should kill you. It's the least I deserve after having to keep your company for so long.
[ "You always were a brat," Petras shoots back, and that's something Astarion really can't argue. ]
We could tie you up and leave you in the sun.
[ Petras scowls. "We would have all been able to walk in the sun if not for you." Another hungry look Iorveth's way, then, "Both of you. You've condemned us to the dark with what you did to the master." ]
Ugh! [ Astarion crosses his arms, frustration pouring out of him. ] He was lying, obviously! Are you really so dense?
[ Hesitation flashes in those incandescent eyes, if only for a moment. "I— no, he promised. He said that it would be what we've been waiting for all these years." ]
Oh, well, if he promised. We all know he's never broken one of those.
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Cazador was a depraved creature, from the sound of it. The kind that would have relished in your despair as he took all hope from you, one final time.
[ Too on-the-nose, probably. Petras whirls on Iorveth and bares his teeth, visibly distressed by the reality closing in on him. It's a different sort of tragedy from Astarion's, like watching someone find out that what they believed to be gold was just yellow-painted rocks.
"What would you know?!" Petras hisses. "You're just food."
Iorveth bears the hungry eyes on his jugular again, and frowns as Petras turns back to Astarion.
"Even if what you're saying is true, it doesn't change the fact that you got what you wanted, and the rest of us got nothing." Red eyes narrow threateningly, sliding back and forth from Astarion to Iorveth. "Let me drain your blood bag, and then we can be even." ]
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Nothing? Don't be stupid.
[ Were Astarion in Petras's place, the only thing that would have upset him about Cazador's death would be that he didn't get to do it himself. Petras is younger, though, impressionable. He hasn't had his will systematically broken down over centuries. Whatever Cazador told him, he foolishly believed. It makes sense that he's heartbroken over losing the future he was promised, even if it was never going to come to fruition. Unfortunately, Astarion has already used up all of his finite empathy.
He takes a step closer to Petras, his voice soft but brimming with barely concealed disdain. ]
You're free, brother. Thanks to me. [ He glances at Iorveth. 'Just food'. ] Thanks to us.
[ "Free to indulge in thinking creatures, like you've been doing—" Petras starts, gesturing toward Iorveth. ]
Yes. Free to kill and consume whoever you want. [ A shadow passes over his face. The thought of Petras's fangs in Iorveth's throat—even worse, Iorveth's blood in Petras's mouth—makes his stomach churn. ] Just not him, or I really will roast you.
[ Petras takes a step back, his handsome features pinched into a decidedly unattractive expression of displeasure. "You never did share well with others." ]
Mm, no. And if I find out you've been trying to play with my toys, you'll long for Godey's gentle touch.
[ For a long moment, they stare at each other, blood-red to blood-red. Silent communication between two people with years of unpleasant history behind them. Astarion livens up, then, clasping his hands behind his back. ]
Don't look so glum. We left a gift for you underneath the palace. Thousands of new friends.
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So, when Iorveth finally opens his mouth again, it's to address Astarion. Situated beside him in the dim of this mostly-unlighted spot of circus, he tries to read his companion's expression. ]
Thousands of starving new friends. [ Gaunt and haunted, ready to sink their teeth into the nearest living creature with a pulse. ] I have no love for this city, but it would be calamitous if Cazador's victims found their freedom here.
[ Petras twists his expression into what looks like a contemptuous sneer, but it's obvious that the idea of freedom is finally sinking in: he glances over his shoulder in the direction of the prison he'd been confined to for all these decades, and his face falls. The sneer fades, replaced by prolonged and involuntary confusion. Like he's at a complete loss as to what to do with all of this information.
"I'll... have to find our other brothers and sisters," he mutters. ]
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[ There's just an edge of condescension to his voice. Astarion has never been popular among his siblings, but out of them all, it's he and Petras who get on the worst. The fact that if not for Astarion he'd have already tried to rip out Iorveth's throat with his teeth doesn't help matters. ]
Run along and find the others. One of them will know what to do with those feral creatures Cazador created.
[ Maybe. Astarion certainly doesn't know what to do with them, and he'd much rather pawn off the responsibility onto Dalyria or perhaps Leon. How could he look those wretched things in the face, knowing that he put them there? Worse, he'd have to tell them that they aren't allowed to eat anyone in the Gate after years, decades, centuries of starvation.
No. Let that be someone else's problem. Petras opens his mouth to speak, and Astarion cuts him off with an emphatic, ] I said run along.
[ Petras turns with a scowl, shoulders hunched in annoyance. Just as quickly as he'd shooed him away, Astarion calls out, ] Wait. [ Petras doesn't turn to face them again, but he does pause. It's good enough. ] Do clean up after your meal. It would be embarrassing if a monster hunter followed a trail of blood right to you.
[ Cazador had played them against each other. He'd had them tattle on each other like children, made them torture each other in horrendous ways. After all of that, Astarion still can't help but feel a small kinship with the other spawn. Siblings not by heredity, but siblings all the same.
Petras doesn't reply, but that also means that he doesn't argue. As he stalks off into the night to find a poor, unsuspecting victim, Astarion turns away and collapses onto the stone perch again, shoulders sagging in exhaustion. Seeing his siblings always makes him feel like his old self again, peevish and tense. ]
The gall to think I'd let his filthy fangs anywhere near you.
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And, well. Maybe this is the wrong takeaway to have, but seeing Astarion interacting with his siblings casts him in a new light. It gives slight context to his interactions with the younger members of the party, the way he heckles and jibes with Shadowheart or Wyll. Some may argue that Astarion has the spoiled air of a youngest child, but this conversation with Petras has re-contextualized things for Iorveth.
Still standing, Iorveth places his palm on Astarion's head. Soothing invisible headaches through touch. ]
Mm. [ Nothing needs to be said about how his blood is for Astarion and Astarion only. Too obvious. ] I didn't enjoy being called food, but I did enjoy watching you be the elder sibling.
[ The spawn problem still persists, but seeing Astarion say "I said run along" wrapped the interaction in a nice bow. Iorveth is a crazy person. ]
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Well, those pipsqueaks need a firm hand from someone older and wiser.
[ Of which Astarion is only one, but beggars can't be choosers. He sighs, reaching up to grab Iorveth's hand with his own. ]
I can hardly blame him. Gods, I was ravenous when I first joined up with our motley crew.
[ It feels so long ago, but in the grand scheme of his life, it was hardly any time at all. He's spent more time hungry than not. He remembers gorging himself on increasingly large woodland creatures in the hopes of sating the endless gnawing inside of him, but even that hadn't stopped his hunger. A vampire needs the blood of something thinking. Cazador created their most base need and then denied it; just another way of controlling them through cruelty. ]
I could barely think straight at first. Honestly, he can probably think of nothing but your delectable neck.
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For what it's worth, you didn't come across as such.
[ A ravenous creature looking for necks to bite, Iorveth means. Especially not his own. ]
Your nonchalance seemed feigned, but― [ Hm. He gestures with one hand, a physical manifestation of what his mind is trying to do, which is clearing the fog of what feels like distant memories. ] ―What I felt from you was detachment, not the intent to do harm.
[ Thus, Iorveth's past (and fairly constant) accusation that Astarion took nothing seriously. He was less worried about having fangs in his throat and more worried about Astarion dipping out or doing something stupid at the eleventh hour. ] Then again, even after finding out that you were a vampire, I assumed my neck was the last one you'd want to bite.
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[ Desire and attraction hadn't played into it. It's different now that he has a steady source of blood, but back then, he'd been desperate. A vampire bereft of blood has a yawning chasm in their very soul. Two centuries of deprivation had left him muddy-headed, weak. Cazador's intention, he's sure. Someone who can barely form thoughts is easier to manipulate. ]
I didn't want to hurt any of you. I was just... hungry.
[ It sounds a rather weak excuse now. He frowns. ]
But the last thing I needed was for you all to decide I was an insatiable monster and throw me out.
[ They'd have been within their rights to. Most people wouldn't sleep soundly knowing there was a bloodsucking creature of the night the next tent over. He shrugs, then presses his mouth to Iorveth's wrist. ]
It hardly matters now. There's no one else I'd rather sink my teeth into.
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Cool lips touch at his pulse, and Iorveth gentles. He motions for Astarion to make space so that he can sit beside him again. Closer, for more visibility. ]
It matters― to know you. I'd not known then what I do now.
[ Obviously. But Iorveth always feels too much, and wants too much: he wouldn't be who he is if he didn't, against everyone's wishes or warnings. ]
It helps to make me see you more clearly.
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Yes, you had no idea then how charming I can be.
[ On one hand, it's irritating that Iorveth never once seemed enticed by Astarion's wiles. On the other, it's ridiculously appealing that Iorveth was so resistant to him. A hard-won indulgence. Someone who really sees him and not only tolerates it but likes it. Maybe even loves it, if he allows himself to think such things.
He laughs under his breath. ]
You know, I used to fantasize about meeting someone like you. [ Not exactly like Iorveth, obviously. His fantasies vexed him far less. ] —A long time ago, of course.
[ Back when he still had fantasies. Even those died, after a while. ]
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Pressed close to the cool body next to him, Iorveth watches the last of the young children leave the circus grounds. Yawning little faces, tired from a day of overexcitement. Iorveth makes eye contact with one of them by happenstance, and the little tiefling girl who's caught his notice smiles a sleepy smile at him before shuffling over to a sister or a friend, eager to find her own hand to hold.
Iorveth, again, is glad that Astarion didn't go through with the rite. He doesn't imagine that the Vampire Ascendant would have come here with him. ]
What else did you fantasize about?
[ On the topic of wanting to know. Everything that'd been denied to Astarion, big or small, Iorveth wants to grant over time. ]
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[ A lie. Not a single one of his fantasies back then had anything to do with sex, save for maybe the daydream of cutting off the hands of whoever dared to touch him. His true fantasies are embarrassing enough, though, that he slips into deflection and provocation easily.
He peers at Iorveth's face, watching the way the lanterns' light dances on his skin, his eye shining. Even more embarrassing than his fantasies then is his desires now. He wants Iorveth to know his mortifying secrets, he realizes. Just as Iorveth wants to see him, he wants to be seen. ]
I suppose... [ The words stick in the back of his throat, difficult to get out. It's against his every survival instinct to share something personal so freely. He half-expects to be laughed at and derided, even when the rational part of his brain knows that Iorveth would never be so cruel. ] I suppose I imagined that someone like you would whisk me away from there.
[ There's nothing more humiliating than the desire to be rescued. He'd felt so helpless then that even the fantasy of saving himself was too farfetched to consider. ]
And I'd drink fresh blood from a jewel-encrusted goblet and wear only silk for the rest of my eternal life, [ is a frivolous addition. A way of sanding down the edges on his vulnerability. All the same, it's true. Astarion is nothing if not vain, and even on his darkest days he longed for nice things. ]
A probing question from the man who wouldn't tell me his greatest desire.
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A soft touch, for a bittersweet confession. The fact of the matter is that Astarion would have still been left in shackles if not for the Illithid abduction; he might even have been dead by now, consumed by the ritual that they'd interrupted only a handful of hours ago. No one was ever going to come to whisk Astarion away, and the thought of that turns Iorveth's stomach, makes him feel more protective than he has any right feeling.
The world is so senseless. It allows elves to die by the hundreds, and for people like Astarion to suffer needlessly for centuries. It makes him so virulently angry, so acerbic, that sometimes that he thinks he'll turn to ash from all the rage he carries in his heart.
Speaking of anger, though. It segues nicely into what he desires, which he relays with quiet conviction. ]
The death of my enemies. Peace for my people. [ Obviously. The addendum is what's new. ] And your happiness, by whatever means necessary.
[ A dangerous promise, delivered by a very dangerous elf. ]
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And what of your happiness?
[ It doesn't matter, he expects Iorveth to say. He's said as much before. A ridiculous notion, in Astarion's opinion. He scoffs before Iorveth can even get a word out. ]
Be a little selfish, darling.
[ Even the death of his enemies isn't indulgent. Astarion remembers back to Henselt's assassination, the cold efficiency of it a stark contrast to the cathartic mutilation of Cazador. It had irritated him how little joy Iorveth took in the death; a man who'd taken everything from him, who'd mangled him just to be cruel, and he'd died without fanfare. ]
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What would you call this?
[ Jostling Astarion in his arms, at this. Physical punctuation. ]
A selfless man wouldn't have demanded that you give up your life in this city to stay with him. [ Which is why he'd tried not to ask, but he really didn't account for how attached he'd become. A stupid miscalculation. ] You've made me selfish, with all this wanting.
[ Nothing new. All of the stupid things he's done in the past tendays have been attributable, in one way or another, to a desire to linger by Astarion's side. Fight clubs, manacles, near-death experiences.
His expression settles to warm neutral again. His fingers drum against Astarion's waist. ]
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