[ Honestly, Iorveth really has no particular desire to do anything at all with Damris once they return to Waterdeep: his chief concern is, of course, Astarion, and making sure Astarion is fine, and making sure Astarion trances for at least two days. More honestly, the only thing Iorveth plans on doing with Damris is perhaps testing the cloak on him to see which one works (if either of them does), but that might give Damris ideas, so he'll likely scrap that idea.
His concussed head starts whirring again. It's giving him a migraine, but he doesn't care― he lets Gale work on the portal while he goes into the bedroom to gather the rest of their things, brushing by Astarion to give him a careful sift of fingers against sticky silver curls. Astarion seems far too exhausted and in pain to do anything but sit limply, which is far more worrying than breaking international laws.
The portal crackles open, and Iorveth helps Gale lug Damris through it first (still hog-tied and very disoriented by the fuckery happening around him); after that, Iorveth ushers Gale through next, promising they'll follow close after, tosses their packs through the violet light, then turns towards Astarion. ]
I can carry you, [ he offers. Not far, obviously, but three steps through the portal should be manageable. Crouching in front of Astarion this time, Iorveth nudges close. ] Wrap your arms around my shoulders.
[ Tired, dry. He doesn't have the energy to resist. His arms snake around Iorveth's shoulders, and he winces preemptively, before Iorveth has even touched his leg. The adrenaline has worn off entirely now, and it throbs even while he's sitting still. It's probably beyond Iorveth's healing capabilities, especially when he has his own wounds to tend to, but he does hope they'll at least be able to dull the worst of the pain.
Speaking of Iorveth's wounds, Astarion says, lamely, ] Your face.
[ Gods, he hates that the hag had the gall to dig her claws into something he already had insecurities about. It's bled quite a lot—on Astarion's shirt, he suddenly notices—and it looks red and raw. Not so deep that it'll leave scars, he hopes. He'd find Iorveth infinitely desirable even if his entire face was scar tissue, but Astarion knows how much grief his maiming gave him. He couldn't bear if Iorveth had more ammo for his ridiculous belief that he's anything but perfect. ]
[ A mild huff, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh, at the mention of his face. Iorveth knows that Astarion doesn't like when he's uncharitable about his appearance, but his response is a near-impulsive: ]
It's no worse than it usually is.
[ Small mercies: the hag's claws raked the unmarred side of his face, which means that the sharp nails didn't rake over and destroy the gifted eyepatch. The angry-red gash extends from his earlobe and down, scouring his jaw and near where the branches of his tattoo extend up his neck; it pulls and bleeds when Iorveth strains a bit to pick Astarion up, but it's negligible.
Hefting Astarion's limp body sideways, bridal style, he tests his balance and starts making his way through the portal. The sinking, unsettling feeling of vertigo and rearrangement threaten to make him drop Astarion, but he holds fast until they're back in the familiar, book-drenched backdrop of Gale's living room.
Phew. A few teetering steps, and Iorveth deposits Astarion onto the biggest couch available. ]
[ He lets out a groan of protest at being jostled while Iorveth puts him down, but otherwise doesn't complain, which means he really must be tired. He hates to give up the opportunity to gripe. Gale's furniture is endlessly soft and plush, so he curls up as much as he can without disturbing his leg, watching as Gale stares down at the tiefling hogtied on his living room floor, hands on his hips and arms akimbo. He looks every bit the disappointed schoolteacher.
"...I trust that he can be untied now, yes?"
Damris nods emphatically, and Gale crouches beside him, but not without turning his gaze to Iorveth for approval first.
"I wouldn't be much of a host if I let one of my guests get rope-burned." ]
If you trust that he won't rob you blind and slit your throat in your sleep.
[ Which is another way to say "your funeral". Gale's always been far too kind for his own good, but maybe that's what Damris needs right now― it's the sort of kindness Iorveth doesn't have available for anyone but Astarion in the moment.
So. A wave of his hand, dismissive (Gale is a big boy wizard, and can Fireball a vampire spawn by himself if he so chooses), before he crouches by the couch that he's laid Astarion flat on, sifting fingers through now-crunchy (the fluid's started to dry) hair. ]
I should go find you a cleric, [ he murmurs, expression shifting out of commanding neutral to betray mounting concern. He's never seen Astarion in such an obvious, lasting state of pain, and it makes his stomach coil and knot.
(Meanwhile, Damris is spitting his gag out, courtesy of Gale, and hissing "you're friends with those monsters?!" as he flexes his sore, cramped limbs. Grateful that he's no longer in Athkatla, but terrified about what the fuck he's supposed to do now.) ]
[ As Damris finally gets to stand for the first time in days—with Gale's help, because it turns out his limbs are quite wobbly after all of that—Gale explains that Iorveth and Astarion really aren't so bad, and he's sure this is all just a misunderstanding, and would Damris like to be shown to a guest room for the night? It's all so ridiculously genteel that Astarion would laugh, had he the energy.
It's also laughable that Iorveth is worried about him when his face is still bloodied and his brain is still concussed. Astarion still doesn't laugh, though. He furrows his brow, frowning. ]
[ Still knelt by the couch, fingers twined in crispy curls, Iorveth exhales through his nose. Weak, as ever, to that verbal sleeve tug. ]
You need a healer, [ he says, but it lacks authority. A statement of fact, but not a demand; this entire night has been about things not going the way Astarion wanted, and Iorveth is loathe to add to that ever-growing pile of frustrations.
Another low exhale, and he thumbs under one red eye. It looks puffier than usual, bloodshot with the kind of distress that Iorveth hates seeing. ]
―But if you wish me to stay, I will. I'll go tell Gale to find someone suitable.
[ Which would leave them alone in this tower with a spawn who hates them, but Iorveth can deal with Damris if he tries anything stupid. He presses his lips to Astarion's forehead, then slowly gets up. ]
[ Poor Gale didn't sign up for any of this, but Astarion isn't in the mood to give him—or anyone else—much sympathy, so he doesn't argue with the idea. Besides, Gale could probably use the social interaction. Astarion isn't convinced that he does anything besides read in his tower all day and grade essays on the proper uses of Evard's Black Tentacles, or whatever a wizarding professor does. ]
Well. It's not like I'm going anywhere.
[ Obviously. Even if he wanted to, there's very little he actually can do but rest.
With that in mind, he lets his eyes fall closed. He's not relaxed enough here to trance, but he can rest his eyes, at least. ]
[ Just as likely: improper uses of Evard's Black Tentacles. Gale is just as much of a freak as the rest of them, really.
Gale is also very helpful, though, so Iorveth goes to seek him out and relay the message that they need the most unobtrusive cleric that Gale can find. The request almost balloons into a conversation about the colorful characters that Gale has met at Blackstaff, which Iorveth volleys over to Damris, who seems a little more willing to hear the wizard out. All of this is exceedingly novel to the tiefling, after all.
With that done, Iorveth goes into the bathroom to find a washbasin that he can fill with warm water, and a few soft handtowels. He also grabs a clean shirt, a brush, and a few potions; with his tools in tow, Iorveth slinks back to where Astarion is laid out on the couch, and sets up shop.
Towels get dipped, then rubbed gently over matted silver hair. An oddly relaxing ritual, Iorveth finds. Built for violence as he is, the wood elf in him still relishes these moments of careful tending-to. ]
[ Today has been the lowest Astarion has felt in a long while, and to be touched gently and cared for after the fact feels... overwhelming. Undeserved, surely. Like he could start crying again, maybe, so he does his best to temper the feeling. He already looks like enough of a mess without adding snot into the mix.
He does, however, reach out to touch his fingertips lightly to Iorveth's wrist. ]
You would tell me if you were in terrible pain, wouldn't you?
[ Iorveth was clawed up and thrown around by a hag. He must be hurting, but he hasn't said anything. ]
[ Maybe Iorveth should portal back to Athkatla and try to kill the hag again, just for making Astarion cry. He'll consider it later, maybe when Astarion's in a better state; the only reason he hasn't buckled under all his pain is because he's so fucking furious at the reality that that wretched monster hurt Astarion the way she did.
He says as much. ] My pain is less offensive than what that fucking creature did to you. [ 'Fucking creature' is a low hiss, clicked between his teeth as if he'd like nothing better than her throat between them.
His hands remain steady, however. Careful, as if he's braiding curls instead of cleaning grime off of them. ]
The fury's taken the place of my pain. [ Reaching for a fresh towel to wipe more blood and dust off of Astarion's face, dabbing carefully at places where falling trinkets bonked him when Astarion collapsed. ] You need to worry about yourself, beloved.
[ Ha. No one in the world has ever told Astarion that he needs to think about himself more. Iorveth truly is delusional. ]
It's only a leg, darling.
[ It isn't as if he'll never walk again. It hurts like hell, but his body has been abused worse than this and still bounced back. The perks of being a vampire, he supposes. A spawn doesn't regenerate like their master, but a slow healing is healing nonetheless.
As for the rest of what happened, he's already decided to repress it. It can be swept under a rug in the back of his mind with the rest of his unpleasant memories, until one day something triggers it to resurface and he flips out on someone who doesn't deserve it. The way things are supposed to be. ]
But I couldn't turn down such tender ministrations.
[ The so-called tender ministrations continue, because it's the only thing Iorveth can do with his remaining bandwidth. Still simmering in his fury, he sets the washcloth aside to uncork a potion of healing and hold it to Astarion's lips to drink. It won't help at all in mending a broken leg, but he figures that it can alleviate some of the other aches. ]
It isn't just your leg, [ he finally says, sullen. He remembers the violent shove and the madcap scramble after Astarion woke up from being put to sleep, the state he'd found Astarion in when he'd come to from his minor concussion.
Unacceptable. He grits his teeth, still furious about it all. ]
I should go back and kill her, [ he hisses. How the fuck he'd manage that, he doesn't know, but it boils his blood to think of the hag persisting. ]
[ Astarion laughs a little, tired but amused, at Iorveth's sullen response. He adores his scowling little fox, fiercely devoted to his pack. It's light, affectionate, and then Iorveth mentions going back and he shoots up, going from horizontal to vertical in an instant. ]
Ow, godsdammit, [ is the first thing he says, because it fucking hurts to move so fast. Then— ]
Don't ever set foot in Athkatla again.
[ Commanding, demanding. He seems to realize his tone after a moment, then adds, in an attempt to soften it: ] Sweetheart.
[ Astarion, he mouths, chiding his partner for the sudden movement with a palm pressed lightly against Astarion's chest, and a little push that encourages him to settle back down onto the couch. ]
Hn. [ To the demand. Another sullen huff, clearly not happy to be discouraged. ] It rankles to think of that fucking hag persisting.
[ She'd mentioned having seen so much of Astarion's thoughts and memories, and the very notion of someone so wretched having been privy to something so private makes Iorveth want to stride upstairs and demand that Gale open a portal again.
It shows on his face, probably. His stupid, ugly, battered face. Iorveth frowns, and sits back by the side of the couch, looking up at Astarion with one hand sifting through now-cleaner silver hair. ]
I won't let any offense to you sit and remain.
[ Hmph! Maybe in a decade's time, he'll go back to Athkatla with a hireling in tow and drag the hag kicking and screaming out of her lair. ]
[ It would be sweet, if the idea weren't so distressing. Yes, of course, he loves the idea of Iorveth defending his nonexistent honor, but the thought of the hag even laying eyes on Iorveth again makes him start sweating again. He shakes his head, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Iorveth's arm, expression gravely serious. ]
I don't want you anywhere near that awful creature.
[ She wanted to skin Iorveth, might he remind him. Maybe Iorveth doesn't remember the worst of it because he was unconscious, but Astarion sure does. He'd felt very helpless then, and it makes him feel helpless now. His least favorite feeling. ]
Say that you won't. Swear it. On, ah— all the trees in the forest.
[ He doesn't know!! What do wood elves swear on. ]
[ Iorveth, the angriest version of the Lorax the multiverse will ever see, looks a little offended that Astarion is going to make him swear by the godsdamned trees that he won't go and viciously murder the creature that hurt his love－
－but, ugh, fine. Iorveth is weak to Astarion saying I want (and its more important sibling, I don't want), especially since Astarion's usual answer when being asked about what he wants is I don't know.
So, after that moment of incredulous half-exasperation: ]
...Fine. I swear on Aelirenn's honor. [ This probably means absolutely fucking nothing to Astarion, but he'll just have to take Iorveth's word for it when he says it's the most important wood elf thing he can think to swear on. ] But if she crosses paths with me, I'll not stand idly by.
[ Stubborn fox. Another soft hmph, and he takes a swig of his own potion; the angry-raw marks on his face fade a bit, mending just enough so that the parallel lines are no longer exposed and bleeding. ]
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His concussed head starts whirring again. It's giving him a migraine, but he doesn't care― he lets Gale work on the portal while he goes into the bedroom to gather the rest of their things, brushing by Astarion to give him a careful sift of fingers against sticky silver curls. Astarion seems far too exhausted and in pain to do anything but sit limply, which is far more worrying than breaking international laws.
The portal crackles open, and Iorveth helps Gale lug Damris through it first (still hog-tied and very disoriented by the fuckery happening around him); after that, Iorveth ushers Gale through next, promising they'll follow close after, tosses their packs through the violet light, then turns towards Astarion. ]
I can carry you, [ he offers. Not far, obviously, but three steps through the portal should be manageable. Crouching in front of Astarion this time, Iorveth nudges close. ] Wrap your arms around my shoulders.
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[ Tired, dry. He doesn't have the energy to resist. His arms snake around Iorveth's shoulders, and he winces preemptively, before Iorveth has even touched his leg. The adrenaline has worn off entirely now, and it throbs even while he's sitting still. It's probably beyond Iorveth's healing capabilities, especially when he has his own wounds to tend to, but he does hope they'll at least be able to dull the worst of the pain.
Speaking of Iorveth's wounds, Astarion says, lamely, ] Your face.
[ Gods, he hates that the hag had the gall to dig her claws into something he already had insecurities about. It's bled quite a lot—on Astarion's shirt, he suddenly notices—and it looks red and raw. Not so deep that it'll leave scars, he hopes. He'd find Iorveth infinitely desirable even if his entire face was scar tissue, but Astarion knows how much grief his maiming gave him. He couldn't bear if Iorveth had more ammo for his ridiculous belief that he's anything but perfect. ]
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It's no worse than it usually is.
[ Small mercies: the hag's claws raked the unmarred side of his face, which means that the sharp nails didn't rake over and destroy the gifted eyepatch. The angry-red gash extends from his earlobe and down, scouring his jaw and near where the branches of his tattoo extend up his neck; it pulls and bleeds when Iorveth strains a bit to pick Astarion up, but it's negligible.
Hefting Astarion's limp body sideways, bridal style, he tests his balance and starts making his way through the portal. The sinking, unsettling feeling of vertigo and rearrangement threaten to make him drop Astarion, but he holds fast until they're back in the familiar, book-drenched backdrop of Gale's living room.
Phew. A few teetering steps, and Iorveth deposits Astarion onto the biggest couch available. ]
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"...I trust that he can be untied now, yes?"
Damris nods emphatically, and Gale crouches beside him, but not without turning his gaze to Iorveth for approval first.
"I wouldn't be much of a host if I let one of my guests get rope-burned." ]
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[ Which is another way to say "your funeral". Gale's always been far too kind for his own good, but maybe that's what Damris needs right now― it's the sort of kindness Iorveth doesn't have available for anyone but Astarion in the moment.
So. A wave of his hand, dismissive (Gale is a big boy wizard, and can Fireball a vampire spawn by himself if he so chooses), before he crouches by the couch that he's laid Astarion flat on, sifting fingers through now-crunchy (the fluid's started to dry) hair. ]
I should go find you a cleric, [ he murmurs, expression shifting out of commanding neutral to betray mounting concern. He's never seen Astarion in such an obvious, lasting state of pain, and it makes his stomach coil and knot.
(Meanwhile, Damris is spitting his gag out, courtesy of Gale, and hissing "you're friends with those monsters?!" as he flexes his sore, cramped limbs. Grateful that he's no longer in Athkatla, but terrified about what the fuck he's supposed to do now.) ]
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It's also laughable that Iorveth is worried about him when his face is still bloodied and his brain is still concussed. Astarion still doesn't laugh, though. He furrows his brow, frowning. ]
You're just going to leave?
[ Astarion-speak for I don't want you to go. ]
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You need a healer, [ he says, but it lacks authority. A statement of fact, but not a demand; this entire night has been about things not going the way Astarion wanted, and Iorveth is loathe to add to that ever-growing pile of frustrations.
Another low exhale, and he thumbs under one red eye. It looks puffier than usual, bloodshot with the kind of distress that Iorveth hates seeing. ]
―But if you wish me to stay, I will. I'll go tell Gale to find someone suitable.
[ Which would leave them alone in this tower with a spawn who hates them, but Iorveth can deal with Damris if he tries anything stupid. He presses his lips to Astarion's forehead, then slowly gets up. ]
Rest. I'll be back in a moment.
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Well. It's not like I'm going anywhere.
[ Obviously. Even if he wanted to, there's very little he actually can do but rest.
With that in mind, he lets his eyes fall closed. He's not relaxed enough here to trance, but he can rest his eyes, at least. ]
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Gale is also very helpful, though, so Iorveth goes to seek him out and relay the message that they need the most unobtrusive cleric that Gale can find. The request almost balloons into a conversation about the colorful characters that Gale has met at Blackstaff, which Iorveth volleys over to Damris, who seems a little more willing to hear the wizard out. All of this is exceedingly novel to the tiefling, after all.
With that done, Iorveth goes into the bathroom to find a washbasin that he can fill with warm water, and a few soft handtowels. He also grabs a clean shirt, a brush, and a few potions; with his tools in tow, Iorveth slinks back to where Astarion is laid out on the couch, and sets up shop.
Towels get dipped, then rubbed gently over matted silver hair. An oddly relaxing ritual, Iorveth finds. Built for violence as he is, the wood elf in him still relishes these moments of careful tending-to. ]
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He does, however, reach out to touch his fingertips lightly to Iorveth's wrist. ]
You would tell me if you were in terrible pain, wouldn't you?
[ Iorveth was clawed up and thrown around by a hag. He must be hurting, but he hasn't said anything. ]
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He says as much. ] My pain is less offensive than what that fucking creature did to you. [ 'Fucking creature' is a low hiss, clicked between his teeth as if he'd like nothing better than her throat between them.
His hands remain steady, however. Careful, as if he's braiding curls instead of cleaning grime off of them. ]
The fury's taken the place of my pain. [ Reaching for a fresh towel to wipe more blood and dust off of Astarion's face, dabbing carefully at places where falling trinkets bonked him when Astarion collapsed. ] You need to worry about yourself, beloved.
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It's only a leg, darling.
[ It isn't as if he'll never walk again. It hurts like hell, but his body has been abused worse than this and still bounced back. The perks of being a vampire, he supposes. A spawn doesn't regenerate like their master, but a slow healing is healing nonetheless.
As for the rest of what happened, he's already decided to repress it. It can be swept under a rug in the back of his mind with the rest of his unpleasant memories, until one day something triggers it to resurface and he flips out on someone who doesn't deserve it. The way things are supposed to be. ]
But I couldn't turn down such tender ministrations.
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It isn't just your leg, [ he finally says, sullen. He remembers the violent shove and the madcap scramble after Astarion woke up from being put to sleep, the state he'd found Astarion in when he'd come to from his minor concussion.
Unacceptable. He grits his teeth, still furious about it all. ]
I should go back and kill her, [ he hisses. How the fuck he'd manage that, he doesn't know, but it boils his blood to think of the hag persisting. ]
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Ow, godsdammit, [ is the first thing he says, because it fucking hurts to move so fast. Then— ]
Don't ever set foot in Athkatla again.
[ Commanding, demanding. He seems to realize his tone after a moment, then adds, in an attempt to soften it: ] Sweetheart.
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Hn. [ To the demand. Another sullen huff, clearly not happy to be discouraged. ] It rankles to think of that fucking hag persisting.
[ She'd mentioned having seen so much of Astarion's thoughts and memories, and the very notion of someone so wretched having been privy to something so private makes Iorveth want to stride upstairs and demand that Gale open a portal again.
It shows on his face, probably. His stupid, ugly, battered face. Iorveth frowns, and sits back by the side of the couch, looking up at Astarion with one hand sifting through now-cleaner silver hair. ]
I won't let any offense to you sit and remain.
[ Hmph! Maybe in a decade's time, he'll go back to Athkatla with a hireling in tow and drag the hag kicking and screaming out of her lair. ]
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I don't want you anywhere near that awful creature.
[ She wanted to skin Iorveth, might he remind him. Maybe Iorveth doesn't remember the worst of it because he was unconscious, but Astarion sure does. He'd felt very helpless then, and it makes him feel helpless now. His least favorite feeling. ]
Say that you won't. Swear it. On, ah— all the trees in the forest.
[ He doesn't know!! What do wood elves swear on. ]
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－but, ugh, fine. Iorveth is weak to Astarion saying I want (and its more important sibling, I don't want), especially since Astarion's usual answer when being asked about what he wants is I don't know.
So, after that moment of incredulous half-exasperation: ]
...Fine. I swear on Aelirenn's honor. [ This probably means absolutely fucking nothing to Astarion, but he'll just have to take Iorveth's word for it when he says it's the most important wood elf thing he can think to swear on. ] But if she crosses paths with me, I'll not stand idly by.
[ Stubborn fox. Another soft hmph, and he takes a swig of his own potion; the angry-raw marks on his face fade a bit, mending just enough so that the parallel lines are no longer exposed and bleeding. ]
...Do you think you can trance tonight?