essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Unfortunately, Astarion is now of the opinion that he doesn't need to think about things, because he has someone (Iorveth) to do it for him. Iorveth thinks far better than he ever could—overthinks, really—so he really sees no downside. He's always been a follower. A follower that complains, but a follower nonetheless. Making plans and decisions is for... other people.

He's of the belief that children who pick random things up off of the dirty street are living numbered days regardless, but he smiles nonetheless, leaning against Iorveth. ]

Look at you. Iorveth Ancunín, savior of children.

[ Not Ancunín yet, technically, but he's allowed to bask in the knowledge that Iorveth will be one day soon, he thinks. ]

And killer of rats. [ He's not sad about it. ]

[ Iorveth Ancunín. Hells. Astarion should be able to see how Iorveth gently startles at that shared last name, then melts into it with the sort of lovestruck idiocy that he might criticize others for; it's the sort of melting that suggests that Astarion could perhaps abuse this power into making Iorveth do stupid shit.

Iorveth Ancunín. There was a lot of nonsense spoken after Astarion called him that, but Iorveth barely registers it. Iorveth Ancunín.

He hastily rummages inside his pack and dispenses of the charms; down the sewer grate they go, making ominous clinking sounds on their way down. Iorveth hardly notices that, either, eager to free up one hand to hold Astarion's again. ]

Iorveth Ancunín, freedom fighter and advocate of bringing his betrothed to bed.

[ He hopes that the lack of artefacts in their general vicinity will help with Astarion's trance, but it's a long shot; still, he can try to help Astarion remain relaxed while he's horizontal. ]

[ It sounds even better from Iorveth's lips than his own. He'd never planned on passing his name onto anyone else. Hells, half the time it hadn't even felt like his name. He'd been more a Szarr than an Ancunín; after all, he could hardly remember the faces of the people who gave him the Ancunín name, but Cazador's was clear as day. 'Family' had meant a tormentor and his slaves, not anyone who loved him. He wouldn't mind discovering a new type of family with Iorveth. A family of two, but still a family, he thinks.

Ugh. This is the sort of sentimental nonsense that used to make him retch. He blames Iorveth for turning him into a puddle of a man.

His fingers slide between Iorveth's, and he squeezes before tugging him along, down the paved street and back toward their inn. It's still dark, but the sky is beginning to turn faintly purple. (Of course. Everything is purple here.) ]

Sharing a bed with your betrothed before the wedding? Oh, the scandal. How will we ever ensure your purity remains intact?

We'll have to define what 'purity' means to us, [ Iorveth laughs.

The sun is making its slow ascent up towards the sky, which means they need to make a swift retreat. Back to their inn they go, bypassing eerily chipper staff to go back upstairs to their suite, where poor Damris is probably still dissociating on the floor of their study. Iorveth doesn't bother opening the door to check; a quick press of his ear against the door indicates that the tiefling is still in there, and now that the sun is coming up, Damris will have no choice but to stay put.

So. Into the bedroom they go, despite the fact that even the soft mattress and smooth covers don't guarantee that Astarion will trance well today. The only stain on an otherwise perfect evening.

Sitting Astarion on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of him to remove the new boots they'd purchased in Waterdeep (the ones that lace up, making Astarion's legs look even longer than they are), Iorveth poses the question: ]

Besides the rings and the robes, what would you want from a wedding?

[ The thought crosses his mind that Iorveth may only be asking because he thinks the distraction will help Astarion trance better, not because he has any real interest in wedding planning. Guerrillas probably find such things frivolous. He imagines they say their vows on the battlefield, no rings or robes, only the gods as their witnesses.

Well, Astarion doesn't want the gods invited to his wedding. ]

You. [ The most important part. He would still marry Iorveth if the rings were cheap knock-offs and the robes were rags... and that's saying something, coming from someone as materialistic as he is. ] Me, of course.

[ A thoughtful pause. He's never so much as fantasized about a wedding since he was— hells, a child. Even then, the fantasy had been more about hitching himself to someone wealthy and important, and by extension, becoming wealthy and important himself. ]

...I suppose I haven't put much thought into it beyond that. [ Which will shock Iorveth, he's sure. He leans back on his hands, watching Iorveth work his laces. ] Most Baldurian ceremonies take place at some shrine or another, but you know I'm not one for all that religious claptrap.

[ Astarion, the only person who'd manage to be an atheist in a world where the gods are an unequivocal truth. ]

The gods didn't give me you. The tentacle monsters did. [ He tilts his head. ] Maybe we should invite them.

[ Laces deftly loosen between his fingers, releasing Astarion's leg from the tight embrace of leather. The footwear gets shimmied off, one centimeter at a time, and gets set by the foot of the bed. ]

I've had my fill of mind flayers for a lifetime. [ Even if he does owe them for jamming a tadpole into his skull, thus laying the foundation for meeting Astarion. ] But if we're to invite one of them as a representative of its race, we could invite...

[ A hum. Trying to recall. ] ...Omeluum? I think that was its name.

[ Iorveth still has no idea what the hells that thing was on about half the time, but if Astarion wants tentacles in his wedding party, he'll get tentacles in his wedding party. ]

Either way, if we're to do this, I thought... [ Ugh. Does he sound overeager again? He clears his throat. ] ...We might have a ceremony the way you wish it first, then do something in Aen Seidhe tradition.

[ Astarion owes the mind flayers far more than anyone else in their strange little troupe. Getting kidnapped off the streets of Baldur's Gate and having a tadpole slither through his eyeball and lodge itself in his frontal lobe is the best thing that ever happened to him. The most disgusting thing that ever happened to him, too, but still the best. He wouldn't undo it, not for anything.

He told Iorveth once that having him makes the pain of the past all worth it. Despite how negatively Iorveth reacted to the statement, he still thinks that. He always will. Without all the suffering, he would never have Iorveth here, kneeling in front of him, unlacing his shoes. Terribly domestic and impossibly lovely. ]

Two ceremonies? You spoil me.

[ And it's also probably a good idea, since Astarion will undoubtedly have many strong opinions on it. Their clothing, their decor, hells, even the food. Just because he can't eat it doesn't mean he's going to serve something subpar.

One has to wonder where they're going to get the money for all of this. He makes a mental note to give Gale a rousing speech about their love so that he feels inclined to open his pockets again.

He scoots back on the bed, beckoning Iorveth with an outstretched hand. ]

And what is the Aen Seidhe tradition, hm?

[ Mentally, he crosses his fingers and begs don't let it be too tree-huggy. ]

[ Bridezilla, Baldurian Edition. Groomzilla? Whatever. Iorveth, working to take off Astarion's other boot, has no idea what kind of ceremony Astarion will want, and thus has no idea what the finances of this will look like (uh oh); he can think about that later. Surely Wyll is entitled to like, some monetary support from Duke Ravengard while he traipses around in Avernus with Karlach.

Logistics later. First, the more pressing matter of what Astarion wants, and what he can expect from unions in Aen Seidhe tradition, which－

－honestly? Iorveth doesn't know. Not with any amount of certainty, since all of their traditions were subsumed by conflict, modified to fit dire circumstances. Still, he doesn't want to make it depressing, so he relays what he knows while he finishes tugging off Astarion's boot and gets to work on removing his. ]

Speaking vows in witness of the forest, usually without too much ceremony. Most Aen Seidhe share lovers over our extended lifespans, which makes the decision of commitment more of a...

[ A vague gesture, with one hand. ] ...Private affair, to be promised between the pair involved. Less and less common now, given that our numbers are dwindling.

[ Lifting himself back up, Iorveth takes a seat next to Astarion. ] I would bring you to one of our ancestral forests, and promise myself to you there. No priests involved.

[ As he settles against the pillows, he reaches out to tug on Iorveth's sleeve, urging him closer. Even though he's fed Iorveth, had his hand held all night, and been kissed a frankly inordinate amount of times... he still longs to have Iorveth close to him. It's a bottomless hunger that can never truly be satisfied. A familiar feeling, but a less unpleasant one than the hunger he's used to. ]

I would go anywhere with you, so long as we were alone together.

[ Exchanging vows in an ancestral forest means just as much to him as exchanging vows in the middle of the Underdark; that is, the location holds no particular meaning to him. But if he's with Iorveth, and Iorveth is happy, he can't imagine caring where he is. ]

But I can't promise I'll be able to keep my hands to myself.

[ He isn't certain if that would ruin the sanctity of the tradition, but he can barely keep his hands to himself now, and the ceremony hasn't even happened yet. He'll be a terror when the day (day and not night) comes. ]

[ Smitten, Iorveth thinks. The only descriptor for how he feels every time Astarion tugs his sleeve, urges him closer, wants him in a way no one else ever has. In terms of distance, it isn't a long way to fall from sitting upright to settling on his side next to the man he loves, but his stomach does a flip from the pleasant vertigo regardless. Thrilled, every time, to be invited so close.

Iorveth obliges, because of course he does. Collar loosened, slightly warmer from the wine, he winds his arms around Astarion for a loose, affectionate embrace. ]

The forest has seen worse. You've not seen Aen Seidhe during Belleteyn.

[ Their version of Fey Day, with a lot more sex. Iorveth laughs, and leans in to litter more kisses against silver curls. ]

...Usually, pairs would vow to live and die together. To be buried as one, when age claims them. [ A soft murmur, pressed against the tip of one ear. ] But I suppose I'd be pledging eternity to you.

[ If he truly can. And, in a way, Iorveth has to; it breaks him to think of Astarion hovering near a grave. ]

[ Astarion raises an eyebrow. He has no idea what the hells Belletyn is, and he realizes that he probably should have asked more questions about Aen Seidhe life before blindly agreeing to live among them. He hadn't intended on taking part in any sort of cultural festivities, but he certainly doesn't want Iorveth to celebrate something like that with anyone else, so—

Something to worry about when the time comes. He has Iorveth in his bed now, breath warm against his ear. He turns his head, pecking Iorveth on the jaw, chaste and sweet. If he doesn't keep it chaste and sweet, he won't have the self-control not to start taking their clothes off, and that'll make the trip back to Waterdeep with Damris in tow even more uncomfortable. ]

Eternity is far too short to spend with you.

[ It makes him glow with happiness nonetheless. 'You'll never be alone again', he had said. ]

But it's a start, to be sure.

[ Another kiss to each of Iorveth's cheeks, and then: ] Rest. I think I'll watch over you tonight, if that's all right.

[ Cuddling into place (because that's what this is, and what he's grown comfortable with), Iorveth keeps one arm draped around Astarion's waist, close as they can be without turning it into furious rutting. He wants this forever: to have Astarion smiling and happy and content.

He also wants Astarion to trance, but he can understand the hesitation. It must be deeply unsettling, to be betrayed by your own psyche in a place where you should feel safe. Iorveth recalls "did you leave?", and his ever-burning desire to stick a sharp object through the hag's skull returns as a flicker that makes it through his shroud of post-engagement night bliss.

Later. His single eye closes, and he nestles against Astarion's hair. ]

No need for vigilance― I'll dream only of you.

[ A light flirt, before he lets his trance take him. An easy, dreamy thing, cotton-wrapped and filled with sense-memory of silver and red; like Astarion pre-hag, the nightmares slip and slide off of his subconscious when he knows the man he loves is close by. ]

[ It isn't quite the same as having his own peaceful trance, but it's enjoyable nonetheless to watch Iorveth slip into his, hand coming up to tangle in that dark hair, stroking gently until Iorveth's breathing slows and evens. He listens to that breathing for the rest of the night, forcing himself to stay conscious both for fear of nightmares and fear that the hag will do something else to him. Weaken him, suck out his nonexistent soul, he doesn't know. He's not a hag expert.

The day isn't wholly unpleasant with Iorveth's arms around him, but he does find himself nodding off multiple times before snapping back to wakefulness. Hours pass, his eyes growing heavier, body feeling limper. Perhaps if he'd had a proper rest in the last few days, he would be able to tolerate it, but it's growing more and more difficult with Iorveth's warm body beside him coaxing him into a trance. Finally, once he can no longer bear it, he wakes Iorveth with: ]

Uuuuughhhhh.

[ Not exactly the most elegant wake-up call. Astarion groans, and Iorveth's reaction is immediate: decades of bring ambush-ready snaps his one eye open, and the arm still looped around Astarion's middle tightens, pulling him inwards protectively against an ill-perceived threat. ]

―Love? [ His voice is trance-hoarse, slightly slurred. ] Astarion.

[ Muffled, as he soothes a palm up Astarion's back. Assuming, in his hazy mind, that he's seen another nightmare. Gods, he can't wait to kill that hag (was that the plan? Iorveth's lost track). ]

I'm here, [ which sounds like "m'hrr", murmured into silver curls. ]

[ This is actually very sweet, and Astarion is touched that even in his half-conscious haze Iorveth tries to comfort him — but being pulled into the cradle of Iorveth's body and having his gentle hand on his back just makes him want to pass out more. It's the opposite of helpful at this moment in time. ]

I know you're here.

[ There's nothing he wants to do less than tear himself away from Iorveth, but he musters up just enough willpower to do it. Sort of. A polite two inches of distance between them, really. ]

I haven't shut my eyes once.

[ Which is good, except for all the ways that it isn't. It's a pro that he's avoided any more restless nightmares, but a con that he's done it by lying in bed staring at the ceiling all day. He sighs melodramatically, turning over onto his stomach and pressing his face into the pillow.

Muffled: ] I can't steal from a hag in this state.

[ Iorveth sits up when Astarion rolls, shooing away the last of his trance fog to watch the melodrama unfold. Or, well. Not melodrama, considering the very real state of exhaustion that Astarion must be experiencing, which is...

...worrying. Maybe he's just trying to be dramatic, but Astarion does have a point about not being able to steal from anyone― let alone a hag― on no sleep and very little blood.

So. Iorveth frowns, and reaches sideways towards the bedside dresser for his eyepatch. ]

You could stay here. Keep an eye on Damris, and rest. [ Honestly, it would be the sensible thing to do, lockpicking skills or no. ] You look exhausted, and understandably so.

[ A bit of Guerilla Leader Iorveth rearing his head. ]

No, [ he groans into the pillow, ] I can do it.

[ Immediately after saying he can't do it. How dare you think that he can't just because he said he can't! He finally flops over onto his back again, eyes a little redder and dark circles a little darker. Honestly, this isn't helping him not look dead. ]

Me doing it is the whole plan.

[ And if he's gone through the trouble of planning something, he really should do it. It's so rare that something like that happens.

He pauses, then ventures, ] If I only had a little blood. [ Another pause. ] Or perhaps a whole person's worth of blood.

[ Astarion flops, and Iorveth straightens. Opposites, as ever. Getting up on his feet, Iorveth stretches and takes in Astarion's state, paler than usual and (though he'd never say it out loud) a bit sunken. Like a flower that needs watering.

Or a vampire that needs blood. No use for fanciful descriptors; it's very clear what Astarion would need to feel more 'alive'. ]

That rules me out. [ Iorveth can offer a snack, but he'd be of very little use to Astarion if he went bloodless the entire night. Not ideal, but this is part and parcel of committing oneself to a creature that subsists on life essence. ]

―Are you asking me to bring you someone?

[ Breakfast in bed, evil edition. ]

[ It feels a bit icky to be asking Iorveth to bring him someone to drain. For two centuries, that was his job—at least, to his understanding—and it hadn't felt good. It's different, he knows, if Iorveth is doing it out of his own free will and not because he has to, but—

Iorveth has also expressed that it bothers him when Astarion sinks his fangs into someone else, even when that fang-sinking ends in death. It's probably unhealthy that Iorveth feels some sense of jealousy over someone that Astarion just killed, but he certainly won't be digging into that today. Iorveth might bring him someone back, yes, but what's to say that he wouldn't hate it the whole time? And then Astarion might as well be Cazador, and that makes him feel worse than his fatigue.

Slowly, he scoots himself up, back against the headboard as he blinks blearily. ]

You don't have to be a part of it. I can find someone.

[ Petty jealousy, spawned (ha) from being bitten one too many times during acts of intimacy. Still, Iorveth is aware that most people don't survive long enough to find fangs breaking skin sexy, and can appreciate that Astarion needs to eat.

So. He moves to where Astarion is propped against the headboard, running his fingers through sleep-tousled hair. ]

No doubt you could. But you'd likely come back with one eye blackened.

[ Worse, maybe. Iorveth has seen the knuckle-shaped bruises along Astarion's collarbone; unlike him, most people struggle when they're bitten. ]

I'll defer to you regarding how you want to eat, but be careful.

Am I not always the very picture of carefulness?

[ Even as he says it, he knows it's a poor lie. Iorveth knows him—really knows him—and therefore, he knows that Astarion rarely thinks things through enough to be careful. Funny, for someone who's worried all the time. He spends an awful lot of time working himself up about things, but very little of that time doing anything actually helpful about it.

He's silent for a brief second, contemplative as Iorveth's fingers run through his hair. ]

...Would you hate terribly to watch?

[ Perhaps it might be wise to have another person there to ensure that he doesn't end up stabbed (or worse, his beautiful face tarnished with a bruise), but he won't ask Iorveth to do it if it would upset him. ]

[ The very picture of recklessness, maybe. They have that in common, when push comes to shove― Iorveth's overplanning and Astarion's underplanning, culminating ultimately into 'fuck it, we ball'.

No one here is sane. Which is why Iorveth huffs, fond, and steps back. ]

I'd hold your victim's hands behind their back while you feed, if it'd make things easier for you.

[ Lest Astarion forget that Iorveth is deranged, and that he really would do anything for the man who he'll eventually share a family name with (seven hells). He smiles, wry and cocky, and tips his head. ]

So, no. I wouldn't hate it. Unless you tell me afterwards that they taste better than me.

[ Which would make Iorveth huffy. Self-awareness! ]

[ Despite the bone-deep exhaustion, Astarion smiles. It's immature and silly and so unwarranted, but he loves that Iorveth would be bothered if he enjoyed the taste of someone else's blood more than his. Astarion is so prone to petty jealousy, and it sometimes feels like he's the only one of them who is; it feels good to know that he isn't entirely alone in his feelings.

Slowly, he lets his legs dangle off of the mattress, slouching but determined to go out and find himself a meal (and, after that, steal from a hag and survive to tell the story). ]

I'll wish it was your blood the entire time.

[ True. The experience of drinking from Iorveth is far more pleasant. Even beyond the obvious benefits of having a willing donor, it feels— special. Intimate. Knowing that the thing that gives Iorveth life is on his tongue gives him the shivers every time. ]

I'm sure it won't take too long. It can't be too difficult to find some reprobate no one will miss.

[ Iorveth, a man who was above petty jealousy until Astarion made him feel okay (?) about it. He might not be proud of having the feeling, but he's accepted that it exists, and that maybe Astarion kind of likes when he talks about it. Wild.

While Astarion slouches, Iorveth moves to the closet (where, during Astarion's absence the night prior, Iorveth took the liberty of hanging his shirts and slacks) and picks out something for Astarion that'll hopefully hide bloodstains: a sleek black collared shirt, keeping in line with the theme of vampire chic. He hands it over, offering to help button it up if Astarion wants to be properly pampered. ]

From what I've read of this city, one earns status in Athkatla by being a reprobate.

[ Translation: "pretty much everyone here probably sucks". Then again, Iorveth is very biased. ]

If anything, you may get rewarded for getting rid of a bloviating, rich oppressor.

[ Astarion shrugs off the shirt he's wearing, now wrinkled by rolling around in bed with Iorveth's arms around him all day. He slips on the sleeves of the offered shirt, leaving it for Iorveth to button up not out of a desire to be pampered—although, of course, he always enjoys being pampered—but because he's far too tired to do anything that requires deft movements of his fingers. The whole reason he needs to get some blood in him before he even attempts to rob a hag blind.

He lists against Iorveth as he waits, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before he forces them open again. ]

You do like to imagine me as the hero.

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