essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Beautiful when covered in blood and viscera, beautiful when overcome by emotion. Iorveth remains where he is, hesitant to distract Astarion from his reaction by calling attention to it. He hovers, angled with their knees almost touching, one hand blindly reaching into his pack for the next gift. ]

I wouldn't be caught dead relying on a wizard's coin to buy my beloved his gifts.

[ There's no way in all the hells that Iorveth would ever allow anyone to say "actually, I funded that purchase" about something he bought for Astarion. Not only is he far too prideful for that, it simply doesn't sit well with him. ]

Gale can fund our war effort. This is from me to you.

[ Chin hiked, expression gentle. Iorveth can't keep up the posturing, especially not while he offers Astarion the second part of his three gifts: a blown-glass, deep-purple bottle of cologne, unlabeled. If Astarion cares to uncork it, the scent is a blend of citrus that fades to rich vanilla and a hint of nutmeg-like spice, which, in Iorveth's opinion, slightly mirrors Astarion's personality. Crisp and acidic at first, warming to something sweet and full that still has fangs. ]

[ Astarion has grown accustomed to Iorveth carrying all of his thing, but he shrugs off his comparatively much lighter pack to place the hairbrush and oil inside before reaching out to take the bottle in hand. Even shinier than the brush, a gorgeous dark purple that would make Gale seethe with envy. He can't help but beam, the tips of his ears flushing pink with pleasure against the silver of his hair. ]

Oh, darling.

[ It's just so ridiculously sweet. A gift for the sake of a gift; he's done nothing worth rewarding in, well, probably ever, but Iorveth spoils him regardless.

Astarion uncorks the bottle, giving it a cursory sniff before spritzing it onto his wrist. The scent is perhaps a little sweeter than his usual, but he finds he doesn't mind. ]

I do hope this isn't a veiled suggestion that I smell.

[ If present Iorveth told past Iorveth that he's come to revel in giving a vampire-shaped magpie shiny things, past Iorveth would probably try to slit his throat for reasons of putting an insane elf out of his misery. Look closely enough, though, and Astarion would probably be able to see the hearts floating over Iorveth's eyepatched head. ]

It's an unveiled suggestion that I've become deranged enough to want to smell you.

[ Again, at least he's self-aware about the deranged bit. Weird scarred fox, pushing himself up against his favorite elf to sniff him for a hit of serotonin. It occurs to Iorveth for a second that this might be very Halsin-coded, but oh well. He'll live with that dishonor (?).

More than a hint of a smile curling the corner of his lips, he finally drops the last of the three gifts onto Astarion's lap: this one is delivered a little more brusquely, as if he wants it to be an afterthought instead of something properly considered. A glass bottle, green this time, similarly unlabeled－ the contents, if Astarion checks, will smell like amber and sandalwood. A callback to when Astarion said that he wanted to bottle Iorveth.

Iorveth doesn't bother trying to explain this one. It's a little embarrassing, actually. ]

[ A little surprised at the curt dropping of a bottle into his lap, Astarion gingerly places the purple bottle into his pack—because it's fragile and precious and should be treated as such—before examining the new, green bottle. He cocks his head as he uncorks it, giving it a sniff. For a moment, the scent confuses him; it isn't bad by any means, but it's nothing like his usual fragrance, and he can't quite figure out why Iorveth would pick something so earthy.

It is pleasant, though, and the scent feels familiar, safe, like home, if he has such a thing. As the soothing sensation of relaxation washes over him, he realizes what this scent is, and the pink at the tips of his ears deepens. ]

This is my favorite one, I think.

[ He's not certain if Iorveth intends for him to wear the scent or simply huff it when he misses him. Maybe he'll do both. ]

I don't mind smelling like you, [ he says, knocking their knees together, ] as long as I can make you smell like me.

[ Iorveht half-expects Astarion to spritz the contents of the last gift onto a pillow so he can pummel it whenever he gets mad, but that aside－ giving something and having it be accepted tickles something soft and previously untouched between Iorveth's ribs. Figures, really. Astarion is the only thing that can make him feel optimistic about the state of things, and that's no small feat.

Finally, with all of his gifts given, Iorveth leans in to press his lips to Astarion's temple. The touch lingers, then slides towards the tip of one pink-flushed ear.

(The bards across the courtyard shift their playlist from ballads about a hero to elven love songs. Iorveth wants to throttle them.) ]

A fair bargain.

[ Regarding trading colognes. Incredibly twee, some would say, and though they'd be right, Iorveth would put a knife in their skull for saying it. ]

Equal in all things. Ideal.

[ A huffed laugh. Equal in colognes, perhaps, but hardly in all things. Astarion is a taker, and Iorveth is a giver. Hells, just look at them right now: Astarion, the pleased recipient of three new gifts and the giver of none. It does seem a bit of a metaphor for their relationship. Sometimes Astarion wonders if this sort of dynamic won't make Iorveth profoundly unhappy someday. ]

I'll return the favor, of course, once we get to Athkatla, [ is said quickly, an assurance that he plans to level their playing field at least a little. ]

But you're rather difficult to shop for. 'Elven freedom' can't be bought off a shelf, I'm afraid.

[ "Return the favor", Astarion says, as if Iorveth hasn't already received the still-unbelievable boon of Astarion's continued presence. Waking up and noting that Astarion hasn't run off screaming yet is a gift every morning (night), but Iorveth figures that he probably shouldn't say that.

(Not to mention the impossible infernal power that Astarion gave up just because Iorveth asked him to. Like, sure, that power would likely have been corrosive and corruptive, but incredible power is still incredible power.) ]

Unfortunately. [ If only. That said, he'd rather earn the freedom of his people, so there's that. A soft hum, warm, and Iorveth leans back into his own space, brow raised. ] And you've already seen to most of my material needs.

[ Motioning towards his eyepatch, the new shoes, the tidy clothes (Gale's). ]

Though we may find something in our target's cabinet of curiosities that I'd want. Sending stones, and the like.

[ Astarion spritzes a little bit of the sandalwood cologne on his other wrist, rubbing them together to mingle the scents. It'll either be a pleasant layering of fragrances or an assault on the senses. Either way, at least he'll smell like Iorveth. He places the green bottle next to the purple one in his pack afterward, careful not to jostle either of them too much. Although he's messy and careless with others' belongings, his own deserve to be treated with care, especially precious gifts from Iorveth. ]

Sending stones?

[ Probably one of the most boring magical curiosities out there, no offense. Why not a magic flying carpet, or an eternally refilling cookie jar? Dream a little bigger, Iorveth. ]

Is there someone you're hoping to speak to? Surely a letter would suffice.

Saskia, primarily. [ And, just because Iorveth knows that Astarion tends to not remember names of people in Iorveth's sprawling network: ] The woman currently presiding over matters in the north.

[ Specifically only in Aen Seidhe territory, but still. ]

If we're to spend our futures together, I don't expect the entire time to be spent in the forests. You prefer life in the city, and I don't wish to deprive you of it.

[ Another light hum. ]

So. Sending stones would be practical. A way to keep my eye on matters while staying with you― unless you'd prefer to journey alone in the future, that is. Then you could be the one on the other end of the stone.

[ In other words: "I have no chill". ]

[ He totally remembered who Saskia was!! Kind of. Something about a dragon, maybe? Honestly, he has very little interest in these people save for what they mean to Iorveth. The only ones actually worth remembering are Ciaran (because he's entertaining to annoy) and Isengrim (because Astarion is jealous of him). And, he supposes, the bard that Iorveth had called 'passable'. If he's anything like Astarion, he must be entertaining, indefatigable flirt or not.

It's charming that Iorveth has considered their futures in such a way, and a little bit of a relief that he doesn't expect Astarion to spend all of it hugging some trees in a forest. Honestly, though, he'd resigned himself to the fact that he would be sitting in the dirt with his very nice hairbrush and nice-smelling colognes and all the rest of his fancy creature comforts. If that's what it takes to be with Iorveth, then— well, he's tolerated worse. ]

Sending has a word limit, you know. And I really prefer not to edit myself.

[ Meaning that twenty-five words is way too few words for someone who loves to hear himself talk.

Still, he places a hand over Iorveth's, adding, ] ...But I know how you feel about city living.

[ Iorveth actually had no idea that Sending has a word limit. A good thing to know, though it's hardly the point.

Single eye dropping to where Astarion's hand is resting, palm to knuckles, fingers stacked on fingers, Iorveth considers his response to the claim laid out in front of him. ]

I have the rest of my life to figure out how to navigate cities.

[ Carefully worded. "Rest of my life" could be his mortal life, and it could be the nebulous immortal life that he may or may not lead, depending on if that's even truly possible for a normal elf like him to achieve. ]

True, I only left the forest to assassinate Henselt in Baldur's Gate. But venturing outside my homeland led me to you.

[ So the world beyond the bounds of his ancestral trees are likely not all terrible, even if Iorveth will always be wary of an overabundance of humans. Some wounds heal, but scar forever. ]

It did.

[ And it also led him to being attacked by tentacled monsters and having a tadpole shoved into his frontal lobe, but perhaps it's better that Astarion doesn't mention that. ]

And imagine how droll and boring your life would be if not for me.

[ Well, probably not boring. There's little boring about being a guerrilla, although it does sound very unappealing to Astarion. Lots of sleeping on the cold, hard ground and eating rations. He wasn't designed for such an austere lifestyle, though, and perhaps Iorveth is. Still, he likes to think he adds a little je ne sais quoi to Iorveth's world. ]

But I find that, hm. [ He stops himself, brow furrowed, as if this is a very strange and complicated concept: ] Well, I think that I care for your happiness more than my own. Isn't that odd?

[ Odd, yes, but not necessarily bad. It feels nice to give a damn for once. ]

So if you want us to live in a— straw hut in the woods, [ he says, visibly disgusted by the thought of such a thing, ] then I don't mind simply taking a few... vacations to the city on my own every once in a while.

[ Growth, Iorveth thinks, even if he isn't exactly thrilled with the idea of Astarion holding Iorveth's needs above his own. Especially if it makes Astarion look like that, nose wrinkled and brows furrowed at the idea of living in squalor. ]

We have houses. [ This first, though. Not offended by the implication that all Aen Seidhe live like rats in burrows (he hasn't exactly given Astarion a clear impression of this prospective future), but a little defensive. ] You've never seen how we lived― our land used to be beautiful before the humans took them. Structures made of marble stretching above the forest canopy, sturdy homes meant to last centuries twining and threading along the forest floor. What set us apart from our invaders was that we only felled enough trees to live among them, instead of eliminating them entirely.

[ Proud of his culture. He could go on, but it's doubtful that Astarion wants a history lesson. ]

―But, yes. If you grow tired of the Aen Seidhe, you're free to go wherever you wish for as long as you wish. I'll hold you to my heart, regardless of where you are.

[ It's a little funny how defensive Iorveth is of his people, and the corner of Astarion's mouth twitches in amusement. How was he to know? His frame of reference for wood elves is Halsin, who probably thinks everyone should sleep naked in the dirt like animals to be closer to Silvanus.

The rest, though, makes him scowl again. ]

Ugh. Must you talk as if you want me to be away from you for years?

[ As long as he wishes. Ridiculous. ]

I only want to go for long enough to go on a few shopping sprees.

[ And go to taverns. Maybe the opera again. Perhaps he'll even visit a library. ]

[ Iorveth "I'm incredibly defensive but if you call me out on it I will kill you for insulting me" NoLastname. Funny, how there was a time when Iorveth wanted to punch Astarion in the face for daring to find Iorveth's self-serious antics even a little bit amusing.

Anyway. A cant of the head, followed by a low breath. ]

I'm an elf, and you're a vampire. Time tends to stretch without us realizing.

[ Blink, and it's been a year. That's how it's felt for him for a while. ]

In a few centuries, once you've found your footing, it may be good for you to see the world through your own eyes.

[ What should be amusing (but very much isn't) is how dedicated Iorveth is to trying to send him out on his own when Astarion has never once reacted positively to it. He'd already thought he'd shown a lot of growth by suggesting that Iorveth could stay with his stupid elves while he got his fix of cosmopolitanism. For a few weeks. Maybe a month. Not a year! His century-and-change might have flown by for Iorveth, but every moment of Astarion's past two centuries has felt like a godsdamned lifetime.

He visibly bristles, withdrawing his hand from its place on Iorveth's. ]

I see the world just fine through my own eyes.

[ He hardly needs a sabbatical from Iorveth to do that! His head cocks in thought, then, before he scoots away an inch. ]

Or do you think of me as some lost puppy blindly following around its— master?

[ Iorveth, obstinate, wants to believe that he's teaching someone to eat something they might not like because it has nutritional value. Narrow-minded, in a certain sense－ he has a specific understanding of the idea of liberation, clearly.

So. A light frown, as if he doesn't quite see why Astarion is upset, even if he knows that Astarion is. ]

The point is that I don't want to restrict you.

[ Piggybacking off of that initial kneejerk response to Astarion telling him that he cares more about Iorveth's happiness than his own, which brings him to a startling, unwelcome revelation; gods, is this his own weird insecurity speaking? Could he perhaps... be trying to brace himself against what he'd always believed was the inevitable moment when someone would want to distance themselves from him... in the guise of telling them that that's what's good for them...???

Hells. He pauses, visibly unnerved by this frankly uncomfortable moment of self-reflection, and frowns more. ]

―Hm. Therein lies the truth of the matter, it seems. I.

[ Gods. No one told him that loving someone makes it that much easier to identify how much he sucks. Unbelievable. ]

You haven't restricted me, you absolute idiot.

[ Sure, maybe it would be wise for him to strike out on his own in the way that he'd not been able to do before, but 'free' and 'alone' aren't the same thing. He would know: he spent the last two centuries alone. He'd made himself believe that solitude was safety because in the palace it was, but his time out in the world disabused him of that notion (rather forcefully). Solitude doesn't make him any more safe or free, it just makes him lonely.

He glances over at the trio of bards in the distance, who seem to have picked up on the tension and the air and started playing something a little more bittersweet. Easier to look at them than Iorveth. ]

...You've tried to get rid of me, certainly. Rather incessantly.

[ The time frame might change, but the notion is still the same. Every time, Astarion gets upset, Iorveth relents, and then the whole damned thing starts over again. It feels awful to have the rug pulled out from under him each time.

With a sigh: ]

I don't even know where I would go. What I would do.

[ Which is, perhaps, an admission that he is a little bit of a lost puppy. ]

[ Animal impulse tells Iorveth to say something biting, like case in point, but he realizes that this isn't about him being right (shocker, he isn't), or proving a point (which has been how he navigated the world for decades, almost a century); it's about what he's said, and how that was received.

An awkward, hanging moment later: ]

I don't want to get rid of you.

[ This, first and foremost. To get it out of the way. The rest is something he has to wrestle with, which he knows is not a flattering look－ it isn't that being honest is difficult, it's that the contents of his words feel like sandpaper between his teeth. Petty, small. ]

It's only that it's been easier. For me. To think that you would land on your feet if you left.

[ Does this make sense? Iorveth doesn't quite know. ]

You said you'd stay. It's no fault of yours that I struggle with the notion.

[ "I don't deserve you" is a thought that's no one's fault but Iorveth's. A bitter pill to swallow, but one he keeps in the back of his throat. ]

[ 'I don't want to get rid of you' has an instant effect, his whole body visibly relaxing. It's a comfort: as long as Iorveth wants him to stay, surely nothing too bad can ever happen.

His face contorts as he listens to Iorveth continue, though, first out of confusion and then disbelief. ]

If I left, [ he repeats as he turns to look at Iorveth again, the words sounding ridiculous even in his own voice. Again—where would he go, and what would he do? If Iorveth cut him loose now, he wouldn't land on his feet. He'd probably find himself in much the same sort of situation he was in before, aimlessly roaming the city streets at night and draining alley cats and pigeons of their blood.

Incredulously: ] Is your skull really so thick that I can't beat it into you that I love you?

[ Mean, but true. All day—or all night, as it may be—he tells Iorveth that he's handsome, sweet, wonderful; he calls him 'darling', 'my sweet', 'my love'. Sure, maybe he shouldn't expect to heal Iorveth's deep-seated insecurities in such a short time when his own neuroses are still alive and well, but— he crosses his arms, irritated. ]

Understandable, of course. I only said that I wanted to keep you forever and offered to buy you a ring. Honestly, I've been very unclear in my intentions.

[ Oh, of course Astarion had to bring up the ring thing now. It's like being hit in the head with a hammer, and it'd cripple Iorveth if he thinks too deeply about it now (holy shit), so―

―mental pivot. He's not sure what the heat between his ribs is, if it hurts or if it's pleasant, but it's there.

Another lingering moment later, an admission: ] You've been clear. [ Again, Astarion isn't to blame for unresolved personal neuroses. It's humbling to know that he has more of them than he'd previously catalogued. Hells. ]

Very clear. To the point where I have to feign maturity to cope with how much I've come to need you.

[ Exhibit A: all of This Bullshit. Iorveth lifts the hand that's been tracing the bench, waving it for emphasis. ]

If I wanted maturity, I'd seek out Jaheira.

[ 'Ha, ha, Jaheira is old'. Never mind that she's a century younger than him. It's about being old in spirit.

He looks away again, watching as a passing couple drop a few coins in the troubadours' hat. They look happy and uncomplicated, arms linked, faces smiling. Ugh, he sort of hates them for it. No one should be allowed to be happy if he isn't happy. ]

I've been denied for two hundred years.

[ Denied everything — blood, freedom, basic kindness. ]

Have you any idea how your maturity feels when it threatens to snatch away the first precious thing I've ever had?

[ Oh, that's terrible. Iorveth scours his memory, and he can't think of a time when Astarion made Iorveth feel the way Astarion is sure to be feeling now. That puts things into stark perspective, and makes him shift closer to Astarion's side. Instinct over intellect. ]

Terrible. As if your love meant less to me than my desire to think that I know better.

[ That's what it boils down to, in a sense. Iorveth thinking that he knows what's best for Astarion, ignoring the signs that point to the opposite. That's a Him Problem, not an Astarion Problem; it must have made him feel horrible. The worst thing Iorveth could do, really, to refuse to see Astarion at his clearest. ]

Astarion. I was wrong. [ The easiest three words to say, under the circumstances. Iorveth doesn't reach to touch Astarion, but something under his skin itches to. ] I'm sorry.

I don't want an apology, you fool.

[ He turns to look at Iorveth again, somehow warm and terribly irritated at the same time. It's charming, he supposes, that Iorveth apologizes for, what, believing Astarion would be better off without him? If there's anyone he should apologize to, it's himself. ]

I want you to believe that I don't consider you so— what was it you said, hmm? Easily discarded.

[ Hearkening back to what Iorveth had said to him. Their neuroses line up perfectly. It would be romantic, if it weren't such a disaster. ]

Or do you think I want to foist immortality on every half-decent elf I see?

I should hope not. [ An instinctive response. ] I'd have to kill every last one of them.

[ Strong opinions for someone with equally strong neuroses. Obviously, if Astarion actually loved these hypothetical immortal elves, Iorveth might still his hand.

―Might.

But Astarion is trying to, again, put a hammer to Iorveth's head and knock sense into him, so he switches gears. Accepting that he's loved is far more difficult than doing the loving, but more than that, he feels safe around Astarion. That matters more to him than pride. ]

I know what I am. Difficult. Jagged. [ Which is what he's made of himself, and what he'd been happy to be. He keeps Astarion's gaze, implicitly imploring Astarion not to look away. ] But I do wish to be loved by you. And I know that you do.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject