essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST 1 ]

My hero.

[ 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. ]

You're just going to leave?

[ Astarion-speak for I don't want you to go. ]

[ 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. ]

Rest. I'll be back in a moment.

[ 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. ]

...Do you think you can trance tonight?

[ Who the fuck is Aelirenn, he very politely doesn't say. He just thinks it instead. It seems serious enough to Iorveth, though, so he relinquishes his grip on Iorveth's arm, letting his hands rest limply by his sides instead. ]

I don't know.

[ His favorite words, apparently. It's been three days without proper rest, and even with human blood still coursing through his system, he feels exhausted. He wants to trance, but there's a part of him that fears what he might see when he lets go of any bit of control. It's irrational. The hag doesn't know where he is, and he hasn't had a real nightmare in ages. Even knowing that, his stomach twists at the thought. ]

Perhaps I'll stay up, make sure you don't take a turn for the worse. You did get a rather nasty bonk on the head.

[ Astarion lets go, and Iorveth shifts so that he's resting sideways against the couch, not-quite-parallel and not-quite-perpendicular, legs sprawled in front of him and his shoulder to the edge of the couch cushion, head listing near Astarion's forearm. ]

A turn for the worse, [ he parrots, softly amused. ] Who knows? A blow to the head could have fixed my personality.

[ One can only hope. Iorveth is staunchly opposed to the idea of Astarion losing more rest just to make sure he doesn't get sick all over himself during the day, though, so he shakes his head (ugh, not a good idea). ]

We'll both trance properly once Gale brings the cleric over for your leg.

And your head, [ he adds, lest Iorveth forget the whole concussion that he has. Astarion isn't certain if he's brushing it off because he's Iorveth, or because he's so concussed that he doesn't realize he's concussed. Hard to know, when Iorveth claims to be fine all the time. It's irritating and charming at the same time.

He reaches out to place a hand on Iorveth's head, weak but still affectionate, petting lightly. ]

This isn't exactly how I had hoped this would go.

[ Obviously. He'd thought he'd be manic with happiness right now, but he just feels tired. ]

I had thought we would be celebrating vigorously right now.

[ Like, just to be transparent. He absolutely expected Iorveth to be naked at this point. ]

[ 'Celebrating vigorously'. A hum-laugh, and Iorveth finally lets the last of his posturing drain from his shoulders, succumbing to the pleasant feeling of Astarion's now-familiar touch. ]

Things rarely go as one hopes, love.

[ A mean, cynical statement, tempered (he hopes) by the use of that affectionate term, love. Still, Iorveth isn't quite looking to have the last word tonight, so he lets the preaching go.

Instead: ] Ambitious of you, regardless, to have assumed that you could have gotten erect after three days without rest.

[ Translation: "ain't no way you could have gotten a boner". Iorveth is the worst. ]

[ Iorveth is the worst. Astarion starts to sit up again, offended, but he quickly learns his lesson this time and settles back down, reclining. He does tug on Iorveth's ear as punishment, though. ]

For you, I could.

[ Unrealistic? Maybe. The truth of the matter doesn't change anything. Like it always is, the truth is boring. ]

Take off that hideous gambeson, and perhaps I still will.

[ He won't. Admittedly, he's in no emotional place to be taking his clothes off. And, for more practical reasons, the leg would be a real turn-off. ]

[ Oh, Astarion. A lying liar that lies, but in a way that makes Iorveth want to pick him up and squeeze him. Accepting the tug to his ear (deserved), he reaches up and pinches the bridge of Astarion's nose. Retaliatory. ]

You'd stay soft, and I'd be offended, and we'd have a row.

[ Joking. Literally none of that would happen minus the Astarion not getting an erection part, which is the only thread of truth here (again, incredibly rude). It's a funny mental image, though, especially with Gale and Damris in the other room, and Tara presumably one more strike away from expelling the two bad influences in her wizard son's life.

Iorveth relinquishes the pinch, and pets Astarion's hair. ]

[ Iorveth is the only person he'd allow to tease him in such a way. He hates being poked and prodded at, but the way Iorveth does it is affectionate, sweet in its juvenile nature. He doesn't mind being poked at all.

However: ]

It's... perhaps for the best.

[ A little faltering, as if reluctant to share but pushing through regardless. People who love each other are supposed to be honest with each other, he's pretty sure. Too bad being honest with anyone ever makes him want to jump off the nearest cliff. ]

I don't feel particularly... inclined toward that sort of thing. At the moment.

[ He doesn't include why. ]

[ Before, being told that Astarion preferred not to be intimate would have made Iorveth pull away entirely, cautious of boundaries in a near-militant way. Now, he still stays within Astarion's periphery, letting his fingers sift through damp curls for one more lingering moment instead of yanking them away immediately. ]

Understandably.

[ Iorveth won't pretend that he doesn't see the outlines of that unspoken why. He's tried not to touch it, has left it well enough alone, but he ventures: ]

Do you wish to speak about it?

[ Just in case. ]

Yes. No.

[ He always wants to talk about it, and he always wants to ignore it. Never happy, no matter what he does. What the hag did was awful, of course, and he feels horribly violated to have his most private thoughts breached in such a way, but conversely, it's almost a relief that someone else looked at his memories and thought that they were terrible, too. ]

I don't want you to see me in that way.

[ Iorveth has seemingly always been a fighter, holding onto his pride with white knuckles. Astarion was and is an endurer. Iorveth would probably be disgusted with the sort of things he put up with. He laughs, dry. ]

I suppose you always did say that I lacked self-respect.

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