[ There's a playfulness to it, but it's genuine, too. How could there be anything in the world that he likes less than Iorveth's voice in his ear, telling him nice things? The sound of Iorveth's voice is like being enveloped in a warm hug, safe and cradled in the embrace. If that weren't embarrassing to say, it would certainly be deranged, so he keeps such thoughts to himself. Maybe Iorveth doesn't need to know quite how much Astarion loves him. ]
...I'll be fine. [ He sounds trepidatious even as he says it, but there is no alternative. The hag can't haunt his dreams forever, and neither can Cazador, for that matter. ] As long as you stay.
[ A role reversal. It's usually Iorveth asking him—ridiculously—to stay, as if there were anywhere else that he'd want to go. ]
—But if you're inclined to sing my praises as I drift off, I really can't stop you.
[ A ghost of a laugh, as Iorveth settles with their hands still twined, still mulling over what the hells they're going to do if Astarion's nightmares persist (Iorveth might have to break his promise if so). They haven't even addressed whether they really think one of the cloaks in Astarion's possession will turn out to be the one they want― the thought of having turned tail for nothing is too much to contemplate at this point in time, still aching and haunted as they are.
So. Sweet things. To salvage just a sliver of his prickly terrorist veneer, he murmurs compliments to Astarion in his native tongue, a string of musical nonsense intermittently decipherable when he uses terms that he's already taught Astarion: "beloved", and "I love you". For all Astarion knows, Iorveth might be reciting recipes and throwing in a few terms of endearment for flavor.
(He isn't. He's sparing Astarion the abject embarrassment, honestly.)
And this is how the cleric, when he bursts into the sitting room, will find his patients: nested against each other like one big bruise, a shocking mess of silver hair and black hair, tan skin and pale skin.
"No, no, this won't do!" The elderly halfling crows, approaching the two with hurricanelike intensity. "No crowding the patient, please! He needs space to breathe!"
Iorveth feels sharp raps between his shoulderblades with the flat of a cane, punctuating the request to move. Ow. He relents with drowsy irritation, only relinquishing his position because he knows Astarion needs to be tended to. ]
[ Astarion always used to hate when Iorveth would speak in his language, paranoid that there was something Iorveth was keeping from him, that there was some private joke he wasn't in on. He doesn't feel that way anymore. Iorveth's native tongue is precious, musical, all him. It would be sexy, if he had the capacity to find anything sexy right now. Astarion murmurs back poorly-accented I love yous, focusing on the sound of Iorveth's voice and the feel of his palm against his until he manages to— not drift off, exactly, but relax enough that it's close to resting. It's restorative, by any means.
At least, it is until they're so rudely interrupted by a halfling. Astarion's eyes crack open, and he frowns as Iorveth moves, fingers slipping away. ]
You're mistaken, old man.
[ Instantly rude. Softness only exists for Iorveth. ]
You have two patients. His face was clawed at, and his brain scrambled.
[ "Hm? Oh? So it was, so he is." The halfling squints up at Iorveth, tapping the side of his face with his cane (surprisingly impudent for a cleric, Iorveth thinks) before nudging him aside again. Triage instincts, perhaps.
"Later, for him. I sense a lot of unpleasantness on you."
Popping by Astarion's side like a mustachioed gopher, the cleric― "Master Reginald is an expert at his craft," Gale explains once he finally catches up, huffing and puffing― mumbles a few spells under his breath and hovers his hands over Astarion's chest, palms glowing a soft gold. The magic seems to peel away at some spiritual mud still left clinging on Astarion, attacking residual corruption from parts of him having been cased in the (now-destroyed) soul bag. The sensation will be like momentarily dipping into cool water― a blink, and the feeling abates.
"Dealt with a malevolent creature, did you? A lich, maybe? Very bad things," he continues chirping, scooting over to Astarion's legs. "Now, off with your trousers, please! I heard there was some more unpleasantness with your leg."
Iorveth boggles at the halfling's tugging at Astarion's pant leg, and not-so-gently displaces him with an elbow to the man's side and a shove. ]
Mind how you speak to him, [ he snaps, then glances towards Astarion. ] Should Gale and I leave the room for this?
[ The biggest hypocrite in the world: Astarion would be gravely offended if Reginald focused on nearly anyone else during his time of need, but because it's Iorveth, he's actually gravely offended that Reginald doesn't give proper attention to his most precious, specialest boy in the whole world. He scowls at the pushing aside, although he doesn't have much time to be irritated, because the cleric works incredibly fast. An expert at his craft, indeed.
More accurately, it feels like being dunked into cold water. Astarion shivers at the sensation before it abruptly dissipates, and he begins to feel the return of those unnameable, intrinsic parts of himself that had felt stolen away. (Not like it really matters. His soul is never going to see any use.)
He bristles at the tug on his pant leg, pushing himself up so that he's vertical once more. ]
Don't wrinkle that. [ In actuality, he just can't stand the feeling of someone who isn't Iorveth trying to undress him. It's been a very long time since he felt it now, but the reaction is still just as visceral. ] —Gale, go. [ A wave of his hand. ] You wouldn't want to become overcome with wild lust and ruin our friendship, hm?
[ Gale sputters and gawks, clearly flustered by the mere implication, but he seems to get the picture. As he walks out, Astarion can hear him grumbling something along the lines of, "...think very highly of yourself..." ]
Darling. [ To Iorveth. ] Help me, if you would.
[ A less pathetic way of saying that he'd prefer Iorveth to stay for this, actually. Reginald seems nice enough, but he'd rather not be alone and pantsless in a room with a stranger. ]
[ Iorveth watches Gale slink away like the saddest golden retriever, then kneels next to Astarion on the couch to help him out of his trousers－
－which is slow going. Iorveth hadn't been able to see the extent of the damage done to the leg until now, but the more he sees of it as the pants shimmy down, the worse it looks. Bruising from internal bleeding along almost the entire length of it, horribly stark against such pale skin.
Iorveth doesn't wince, but he feels inclined to. Reginald, on the other hand, pipes up with an "oh!", impressed-adjacent as he scurries around.
"Hm, hm! A nasty break, nasty indeed... I'm surprised you aren't screaming in pain right now. Most people would have fainted from the agony."
Grim. It makes Iorveth think of all the impossible things Astarion had to endure under Cazador's thumb, which makes him grit his teeth. ]
[ The leg is tender enough that even the peeling away of fabric hurts, and Astarion finds himself caught between his desire to seem unflappable and his desire to throw a fit about anything unpleasant. He settles for scrunching up his face and grinding his teeth, only opening them once his leg is exposed to the air, which isn't much more comfortable.
He looks at Iorveth first, who looks like he's about to shatter his molars if he sets his jaw any harder; not a good sign. His eyes follow Iorveth's, and— ]
Oh, gods.
[ It's not his first injury of this sort, but it's the first that he's ever really gotten a good look at. He'd spent most of his time recuperating in the kennels where he couldn't look if he wanted to, and the rest of the time, he avoided getting undressed at all costs. This, though... ]
It's hideous.
[ A bigger problem than the pain by far. He looks up with a start, wide eyes beseeching Reginald for good news. ]
[ Oh. Iorveth blinks, stares, then laughs in a gallows-humor way, like he simply cannot believe that Astarion is worried about aesthetics instead of the fact that his leg is fucking shattered, but also, like. Of course he is. It makes Iorveth want to strangle him a little, but at the same time, the consistency makes Iorveth want to punch Astarion in the mouth with his own mouth. A familiar feeling.
Reginald watches Iorveth laugh, and shakes his head. "Mmmm, this one has been hit in the head." Drag him, grandpa. Still, a deranged elf doesn't flip his established triage priorities, so Reginald hops on over towards the injured leg, leaning in so close that his nose is almost brushing over the inflamed skin.
(It's so swollen that it almost looks like Astarion has cankles............. a true tragedy.)
"Oh no, it won't be hideous forever," the cleric says cheerfully, not bothering to use more delicate phrasing. "It will be hideous for the next few days, however! Perhaps less hideous six days from now. But slightly hideous until then."
Iorveth considers throwing the halfling out the window, but stops once he notes that Reginald is starting to spellcast, fingers glowing yellow-gold again.
"No exercising on the leg until then! Absolutely no running for the next three days, and certainly no jumping, no hopping, no skipping." Cheerfully: "Oh, this will hurt, by the way."
Nimble hands suddenly grip along Astarion's leg, deft fingers kneading into discolored skin as if they can press through the barrier of skin and put the bone back together that way. (Gale, curious, is peeking from a corner, as if he's taking mental notes on technique.) ]
He reaches out for Iorveth's hands, an instinctive comfort-seeking, but it ends in less comfort and more squeezing his fingers so hard that it's a wonder they don't shatter, too. Iorveth's only saving grace is Astarion's utter lack of strength, because he's gripping as hard as he can, seeking some sort of outlet for the pain. He'll feel bad about it afterwards, surely, but at the moment, there isn't a coherent thought in his head.
His teeth gnash with such intensity that he's surprised he doesn't bite off his own tongue. It's not just the physical discomfort, although there's certainly a lot of that. It's the feeling of having someone inflict pain on him—no matter how good their intentions—and having to sit here and take it. It lights up something terribly unpleasant in his brain, and after what must be a fraction of a second but feels like forever: ]
Iorveth doesn't know that he's ever heard Astarion scream like this before, and it jolts him into an immediate sense of ice-cold urgency, uncaring of whether Astarion breaks his fingers in an attempt to vent pain. Not even the hag inspired this sort of visceral reaction, and Iorveth turns to Reginald with his teeth bared, fury staining his one eye. ]
Stop, he said.
[ Despite the dramatics, the cleric remains unfazed. Unrelenting, even. His calm is the calm of a healer who has seen every permutation of physical atrocity that the world can offer, and finds it a little ridiculous that these elves are kicking up a fuss over a broken leg (albeit a very badly broken leg, Reginald will give them that).
"Must keep going if he ever wants to walk again," the halfling replies without skipping a beat. His fingers dig harder into Astarion's bruise, finding the worst of the fracture to grind it (the only word for what the process must feel like) into submission.
Iorveth, meanwhile, hisses a very genuine: ] Stop, before I take your head, [ to which Gale appears from the doorway, looking rumpled and flustered and very, very concerned as he tries to hold Iorveth back from literal murder.
"Iorveth! I understand how you must feel, but you must let him work." ]
[ If only Astarion were in a better state of mind, he'd find Iorveth's protectiveness very sweet and terribly endearing. He really cares, which of course Astarion knows, but it's always a strange and amazing realization every time Iorveth does something that proves it. Except he can't appreciate it now, because Iorveth is saying to stop and it doesn't stop, which sends the cold feeling of helplessness up his spine, and—
Rationally, he knows this is completely different than any sort of pain he experienced in the past, but it feels so similar as to make the distinction negligible. He wants to thrash and fight and wring Reginald's neck for doing this to him, but he doesn't. He does what he's always done: endure.
He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, and goes inside himself to wait for it to be over, fingernails digging into the flesh of Iorveth's hand sharply enough to draw blood. ]
[ And thus, there's a strange pile of people holding other people down: Reginald, who works his hands over the broken leg with meticulous (and agonizing) precision, Gale, who has his arms around Iorveth's middle, keeping him from lashing out at Reginald, and Iorveth, snarling at Reginald with every intention to bite his impertinent fucking head off, but also staying put so as not to dislodge Astarion's deathgrip around his now-bleeding hand.
Seconds stretch, turning into minutes; small, shattered bone start to realign where they should, and all the torn sinew and veins revert to their original states, albeit tentatively. Raw, aching.
After a few more beats of pure, white-hot pain, the cleric pulls his now non-glowing hands back. A bead of sweat has formed on his forehead, which he wipes away with a sleeve.
"―There. That was quite bad, wasn't it. Adventurers really should learn to take care of themselves better."
Iorveth really could kill him. He doesn't, obviously, but there's still murder in the glint of his eye, and he spits a rather harsh obscenity in his native language between his teeth before turning to Astarion. ]
[ A moment passes, then another. It's only then that Astarion finally opens his eyes, letting himself become reacquainted with the feeling of physically existing again. It's been ages since he separated himself from his body to such a degree, and he had forgotten how disorienting it can be trying to come back into it. He blinks, grip on Iorveth's hand finally loosening. ]
Oh.
[ His leg does feel better. Not good, but improved. Sturdier, like the shattered pieces have fused back together, but still sore, like they aren't exactly happy about the fact. It still looks awful, but he supposes he'll have to trust Reginald on the recovery timeframe.
Speaking of Reginald, Astarion doesn't have it in him to thank him, despite his kindness in coming over here at the crack of dawn to heal some stranger he doesn't even know. All he can say is: ] Gods below, I know it's an enticing sight, but surely one of you can hand me my trousers.
[ It feels like he's sitting in his underwear with half of Waterdeep as witnesses. ]
[ Gale relinquishes his hold on Iorveth once he's sure that the deranged elf won't turn around and try to slit the cleric's throat, and that's Iorveth's cue to shove away and slide closer to Astarion, trousers in tow to pull them back on and over long legs. The bruised one is still noticeably more swollen than the other, presumably still sore and uncomfortable; it conjures the sound of Astarion's scream again, deepening the frown-crease between Iorveth's brows.
Reginald, still chipper: "I'll be back again tomorrow to make sure everything's settling alright with the leg." Then, he glances towards Iorveth. "As for you..."
Migraine-wracked, face cut, hand bleeding, Iorveth looks every bit like a rabid fox. If he had fuzzy triangular ears, they would be sitting flat against his head, fur on end and hackles raised. ]
I don't require your help, [ he says with furious obstinacy, even though it really would be prudent to let Reginald tend to him. Iorveth is grateful, of course, that the cleric came all this way to heal Astarion in the only way that was likely available, but he's still furious that the halfling was so flippant about Astarion's pain. ]
[ "Iorveth," Gale says, face red with embarrassment that he sought out Reginald only for his two guests to be so impolite. "Surely it wouldn't hurt to let him take a look!"
The right thing to do would be for Astarion to admit that he overreacted, and to encourage Iorveth to allow the healing. At least a little bit — perhaps his head might be more unpleasant, but to heal at least the marks Astarion left on his hand should be painless enough. But Astarion still feels shaken from— well, he's still shaken from murdering that man, much less the hag and now this. It isn't the worst day of his life by far—nothing could be, with Iorveth by his side—but it's not winning any awards for best, either. ]
I hate to see you in pain, [ is the most encouragement he can offer. He presses cool fingers lightly over the scratches on Iorveth's hand, frowning. He doesn't remember squeezing Iorveth quite this hard. ]
But it's your choice, my love. I'll tend to you if he doesn't.
[ "Far be it from me to minimize the healing power of love," Gale says, "but I'm not certain it cures a concussion." ]
[ Hypothetical fuzzy ears are still laid flat, hypothetical fuzzy tail is still puffed up in angry caution. Iorveth glares at Gale, shooting him a look that Astarion might be able to decipher as one that Iorveth used to direct at him before they finally became intimate: that "I'll-kill-you-if-you-laugh-at-me" look, proud and deathly sharp, now converted to "I'll-kill-you-if-you-laugh-at-us". ]
Thank you for your patronization, [ he clips between his teeth, at Gale. Dripping sarcasm, in boggling contrast to the gentleness with which he turns his hand over in Astarion's to tangle their fingers again. ] I feel it curing my concussion already.
[ Iorvethese for "hey, shut up". Not very nice of him, he knows― again, their friend is just trying to be helpful, and has done the work to do everything he can. That's the only thing that makes Iorveth relent somewhat, even though he stays hovered by Astarion's side like a vengeful wraith, spiritually hissing at anyone who gets too close. ]
...My head. And my face. To put my beloved at ease. [ He makes a crude motion with his free hand at Reginald in a brusque gesture for him to come closer, and the halfling obliges with cheerful exasperation. It's clear that he's experienced every permutation of difficult patients in addition to physical horrors, and he approaches Iorveth with somewhat unnerving patience.
"What you need is perspective," the old halfling says as he runs gold-glowing fingers over the scratches on Iorveth's face, first. Quick and easy, though the process stings― like having tiny needles poking rapidly over his skin. "You two need to spend more time away from each other. Inhabit each other less."
[ It's the same sort of thing that Iorveth used to say, back before Astarion browbeat him into submitting to the way he wanted things to be. He'd thought it would be healthy for them to spend time apart, and instead, Astarion molded him into his codependent shape. He had never considered that doing so could be bad before. If they were together, he'd thought, then surely it had to be a good thing.
Astarion doesn't like looking at his own actions with a critical lens, of course, so he immediately goes on the defensive. ]
And when was the last time someone inhabited you, hm?
[ Reginald is working on Iorveth's head now, humming under his breath as he combs through Iorveth's hair (which I now have an actual reference for, thank you CDPR concept artists) with his glowing fingers, easing some of the pressure and the grinding headache post-concussion. It's a strange feeling, not unlike the tadpole squirming in his skull; Iorveth'd laugh about Astarion's snide comment, but the healing to his brain makes him list forward against the cleric's front, limp and boneless.
Reginald, meanwhile, as chipper as ever, offers: "oh, me and my wife have quite the robust relationship! She travels often, but sometimes absence makes the heart fonder, if you know what I mean."
Wink wink, nudge nudge. "Master Reginald!", Gale gasps this time around. ]
I don't, [ Astarion shoots back, immaturely snippy. ] My heart is quite fond without it.
[ How dare you suggest Iorveth ever be apart from me, essentially. Maybe it's worry that Iorveth will come to love him less if they're not together every minute of every day. Maybe it's the fear that life will immediately become intolerable again with Iorveth to help him navigate it. Or maybe it's pure selfishness and that same desire he'd felt horribly embarrassed about all those months ago: to be close to Iorveth all the time.
It doesn't matter, in the end. If Iorveth doesn't plan to leave him, Astarion won't ever send him away. Iorveth's presence means safety and comfort, and he's loath to give that up for ridiculous ideas of 'being psychologically healthy' and 'not smothering your partner'.
As Iorveth sways forward, Astarion slides a hand up his arm, resting on his shoulder. ]
Is he supposed to look like this?
i'm gonna be so mad if he's in witcher 4 and they make him pretty
[ Wise (?) cleric grandfather is trying to teach these elves a thing or two about having relationships based on trust and space, and trying to reassure them that he has grown old with someone in a very manageable and very loving manner, but apparently the task is like trying to climb up a fully-oiled mountain.
Therapy sessions will cost the pair extra, so Reginald wisely (???) backs off, dislodging Iorveth from his front to let him list against Astarion again.
"Just a suggestion, my lad," he winks again, before addressing Iorveth's slightly-woozy state. "And yes, he'll be fine－ fixing a concussion usually tends to make patients a little, hm, loopy. Brains are delicate things, after all. Try to keep him from doing anything too demanding for the next day or so. Best to stay inside and not be anywhere too bright!"
Patting Iorveth on the head, as if he's a big sullen dog. Iorveth opens his eye (he'd hardly noticed he'd closed it) and glares at the halfling with as much venom as he can muster. ]
Gods, you chatter. [ Says Iorveth, who is deeply in love with a serial yapper. It's fine when Astarion does it, because he loves Astarion. ] Thank you for your assistance, cleric, but you're fast overstaying your welcome.
Edited (how am i making so many typos recently) 2025-06-24 01:30 (UTC)
[ Astarion doesn't notice the hypocrisy. Yeah, Reginald is an annoying yapper! With a sigh, he says, ] Some people just don't know when to stop talking, I'm afraid. [ Not him, though. He's always saying important things that other people should hear.
Gale is obviously dying of humiliation by this point, although in Astarion's opinion, he really should have expected it. Reginald is annoying, and neither Astarion nor Iorveth are the type to keep their derision inside. (Astarion should know, considering he's been the victim of Iorveth's derision many times before.)
"Actually," he says, approaching Reginald. "There is someone else I'd like you to take a look at, if you have a moment to spare. He's been through a rather harrowing few days, so it seems..."
Astarion doesn't really care what Reginald does with Damris, so he tunes Gale out at this point. Instead, he starts working on the arduous process of standing. The soreness, while incredibly mild compared to the crushing pain of having his leg shattered, is somehow worse. Astarion has always been very bad at tolerating minor discomfort. He groans, limping pathetically. ]
I've had enough of all of this, I think. [ Announcing his departure, like anyone cares: ] I'm going to retire to my room.
[ 'His' room. He really does think he owns the place. ]
slaps a 'do not yassify' on iorveth (but also upgrade him from xbox graphics i beg)
[ To Reginald's credit, he truly seems unbothered by the rude behavior from two unbelievably mean elves. Gale needs to be commended for finding someone with such strength of character, or finding someone who might also have been bonked on the head one too many times. Either/or.
Iorveth gets up when Astarion does, woozily offering to let Astarion lean against him for the arduous journey up the stairs and to their (Gale's spare) bedroom. He's tired, fuzzy around the edges, and still fucking furious about everything, which means that he should probably be horizontal before he goes out and murders something for being a minor inconvenience. ]
Let's go, [ is all he offers, along with a curt nod to Reginald in lieu of more thanks.
And, with that, they travel up. On the way, they pass the room where Damris is being kept in－ the door is open, and when Damris sees Astarion limping along the hall, he smiles the brightest, most 'serves-you-right' smile that he can likely muster.
"It sounded like you were in a lot of pain," he calls out as the pair pass. "Poor thing!" ]
Perhaps we should send the stray back to Athkatla.
[ He couldn't, no matter how much Damris irritates him. It would have been one thing to abandon him there, but it's quite another to offer hope (no matter how deranged) and then snatch it away. Astarion had been all right living an empty life with no hope for the future, but the moment he tasted freedom, the idea of ever going back had made him want to vomit.
So he just stomps lopsidedly away until they reach the guest room. It's only then, in the privacy of their bedroom, that it dawns on him that he feels like shit. Physically, mentally. It hits him like a ton of bricks, and he finds himself crawling into bed and curling into the fetal position fully-clothed, even his shoes still on. ]
[ Not Astarion's night. Nightmares, insomnia, murder, mental torture, physical anguish, casual derision. Everything that could (un)reasonably happen to one person in a lifetime has happened to him in the span of a few hours; Iorveth doesn't blame Astarion for wanting to curl up and stay under his blankets for the foreseeable future.
So he tries to take some of the thinking out of Astarion's equation. Sitting near him by the edge of the bed, Iorveth peels back enough of the blanket to get at Astarion's boots, unlacing them slowly to pull them off, one by one. Afterwards, he smooths the blanket back over Astarion and turns the lamplights off, makes sure that the curtains are pulled tight over the window. ]
I thought you might want the blood, [ is his reply, tired but light. Same old Iorveth, always preferring to present as fine, even when he was snarling and hissing at a halfling just moments ago. ] But you need the rest more, I think.
[ He sits by the foot of the bed again, vigilantly watching over the curled lump that Astarion's made himself into. ]
[ From his place as a curled lump, Astarion cracks a small smile. ]
I won't argue with you on that point.
[ He really wasn't an ass. Astarion is an ass, and he feels a bit humiliated for having made such a scene. Reginald was probably right to keep going, even if it had made him feel awful. Still, he's happy to take the opportunity to insult someone who made him feel that way.
A silence stretches out, and then he huffs. ]
Are you just going to sit there like a gargoyle all night? Come here.
[ Unsurprisingly, he finds himself in the mood to bark orders. ]
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[ There's a playfulness to it, but it's genuine, too. How could there be anything in the world that he likes less than Iorveth's voice in his ear, telling him nice things? The sound of Iorveth's voice is like being enveloped in a warm hug, safe and cradled in the embrace. If that weren't embarrassing to say, it would certainly be deranged, so he keeps such thoughts to himself. Maybe Iorveth doesn't need to know quite how much Astarion loves him. ]
...I'll be fine. [ He sounds trepidatious even as he says it, but there is no alternative. The hag can't haunt his dreams forever, and neither can Cazador, for that matter. ] As long as you stay.
[ A role reversal. It's usually Iorveth asking him—ridiculously—to stay, as if there were anywhere else that he'd want to go. ]
—But if you're inclined to sing my praises as I drift off, I really can't stop you.
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So. Sweet things. To salvage just a sliver of his prickly terrorist veneer, he murmurs compliments to Astarion in his native tongue, a string of musical nonsense intermittently decipherable when he uses terms that he's already taught Astarion: "beloved", and "I love you". For all Astarion knows, Iorveth might be reciting recipes and throwing in a few terms of endearment for flavor.
(He isn't. He's sparing Astarion the abject embarrassment, honestly.)
And this is how the cleric, when he bursts into the sitting room, will find his patients: nested against each other like one big bruise, a shocking mess of silver hair and black hair, tan skin and pale skin.
"No, no, this won't do!" The elderly halfling crows, approaching the two with hurricanelike intensity. "No crowding the patient, please! He needs space to breathe!"
Iorveth feels sharp raps between his shoulderblades with the flat of a cane, punctuating the request to move. Ow. He relents with drowsy irritation, only relinquishing his position because he knows Astarion needs to be tended to. ]
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At least, it is until they're so rudely interrupted by a halfling. Astarion's eyes crack open, and he frowns as Iorveth moves, fingers slipping away. ]
You're mistaken, old man.
[ Instantly rude. Softness only exists for Iorveth. ]
You have two patients. His face was clawed at, and his brain scrambled.
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"Later, for him. I sense a lot of unpleasantness on you."
Popping by Astarion's side like a mustachioed gopher, the cleric― "Master Reginald is an expert at his craft," Gale explains once he finally catches up, huffing and puffing― mumbles a few spells under his breath and hovers his hands over Astarion's chest, palms glowing a soft gold. The magic seems to peel away at some spiritual mud still left clinging on Astarion, attacking residual corruption from parts of him having been cased in the (now-destroyed) soul bag. The sensation will be like momentarily dipping into cool water― a blink, and the feeling abates.
"Dealt with a malevolent creature, did you? A lich, maybe? Very bad things," he continues chirping, scooting over to Astarion's legs. "Now, off with your trousers, please! I heard there was some more unpleasantness with your leg."
Iorveth boggles at the halfling's tugging at Astarion's pant leg, and not-so-gently displaces him with an elbow to the man's side and a shove. ]
Mind how you speak to him, [ he snaps, then glances towards Astarion. ] Should Gale and I leave the room for this?
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More accurately, it feels like being dunked into cold water. Astarion shivers at the sensation before it abruptly dissipates, and he begins to feel the return of those unnameable, intrinsic parts of himself that had felt stolen away. (Not like it really matters. His soul is never going to see any use.)
He bristles at the tug on his pant leg, pushing himself up so that he's vertical once more. ]
Don't wrinkle that. [ In actuality, he just can't stand the feeling of someone who isn't Iorveth trying to undress him. It's been a very long time since he felt it now, but the reaction is still just as visceral. ] —Gale, go. [ A wave of his hand. ] You wouldn't want to become overcome with wild lust and ruin our friendship, hm?
[ Gale sputters and gawks, clearly flustered by the mere implication, but he seems to get the picture. As he walks out, Astarion can hear him grumbling something along the lines of, "...think very highly of yourself..." ]
Darling. [ To Iorveth. ] Help me, if you would.
[ A less pathetic way of saying that he'd prefer Iorveth to stay for this, actually. Reginald seems nice enough, but he'd rather not be alone and pantsless in a room with a stranger. ]
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－which is slow going. Iorveth hadn't been able to see the extent of the damage done to the leg until now, but the more he sees of it as the pants shimmy down, the worse it looks. Bruising from internal bleeding along almost the entire length of it, horribly stark against such pale skin.
Iorveth doesn't wince, but he feels inclined to. Reginald, on the other hand, pipes up with an "oh!", impressed-adjacent as he scurries around.
"Hm, hm! A nasty break, nasty indeed... I'm surprised you aren't screaming in pain right now. Most people would have fainted from the agony."
Grim. It makes Iorveth think of all the impossible things Astarion had to endure under Cazador's thumb, which makes him grit his teeth. ]
Enough talking. Fix it.
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He looks at Iorveth first, who looks like he's about to shatter his molars if he sets his jaw any harder; not a good sign. His eyes follow Iorveth's, and— ]
Oh, gods.
[ It's not his first injury of this sort, but it's the first that he's ever really gotten a good look at. He'd spent most of his time recuperating in the kennels where he couldn't look if he wanted to, and the rest of the time, he avoided getting undressed at all costs. This, though... ]
It's hideous.
[ A bigger problem than the pain by far. He looks up with a start, wide eyes beseeching Reginald for good news. ]
Say that it won't be ugly forever.
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Reginald watches Iorveth laugh, and shakes his head. "Mmmm, this one has been hit in the head." Drag him, grandpa. Still, a deranged elf doesn't flip his established triage priorities, so Reginald hops on over towards the injured leg, leaning in so close that his nose is almost brushing over the inflamed skin.
(It's so swollen that it almost looks like Astarion has cankles............. a true tragedy.)
"Oh no, it won't be hideous forever," the cleric says cheerfully, not bothering to use more delicate phrasing. "It will be hideous for the next few days, however! Perhaps less hideous six days from now. But slightly hideous until then."
Iorveth considers throwing the halfling out the window, but stops once he notes that Reginald is starting to spellcast, fingers glowing yellow-gold again.
"No exercising on the leg until then! Absolutely no running for the next three days, and certainly no jumping, no hopping, no skipping." Cheerfully: "Oh, this will hurt, by the way."
Nimble hands suddenly grip along Astarion's leg, deft fingers kneading into discolored skin as if they can press through the barrier of skin and put the bone back together that way. (Gale, curious, is peeking from a corner, as if he's taking mental notes on technique.) ]
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He reaches out for Iorveth's hands, an instinctive comfort-seeking, but it ends in less comfort and more squeezing his fingers so hard that it's a wonder they don't shatter, too. Iorveth's only saving grace is Astarion's utter lack of strength, because he's gripping as hard as he can, seeking some sort of outlet for the pain. He'll feel bad about it afterwards, surely, but at the moment, there isn't a coherent thought in his head.
His teeth gnash with such intensity that he's surprised he doesn't bite off his own tongue. It's not just the physical discomfort, although there's certainly a lot of that. It's the feeling of having someone inflict pain on him—no matter how good their intentions—and having to sit here and take it. It lights up something terribly unpleasant in his brain, and after what must be a fraction of a second but feels like forever: ]
I can't do it, stop.
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Iorveth doesn't know that he's ever heard Astarion scream like this before, and it jolts him into an immediate sense of ice-cold urgency, uncaring of whether Astarion breaks his fingers in an attempt to vent pain. Not even the hag inspired this sort of visceral reaction, and Iorveth turns to Reginald with his teeth bared, fury staining his one eye. ]
Stop, he said.
[ Despite the dramatics, the cleric remains unfazed. Unrelenting, even. His calm is the calm of a healer who has seen every permutation of physical atrocity that the world can offer, and finds it a little ridiculous that these elves are kicking up a fuss over a broken leg (albeit a very badly broken leg, Reginald will give them that).
"Must keep going if he ever wants to walk again," the halfling replies without skipping a beat. His fingers dig harder into Astarion's bruise, finding the worst of the fracture to grind it (the only word for what the process must feel like) into submission.
Iorveth, meanwhile, hisses a very genuine: ] Stop, before I take your head, [ to which Gale appears from the doorway, looking rumpled and flustered and very, very concerned as he tries to hold Iorveth back from literal murder.
"Iorveth! I understand how you must feel, but you must let him work." ]
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Rationally, he knows this is completely different than any sort of pain he experienced in the past, but it feels so similar as to make the distinction negligible. He wants to thrash and fight and wring Reginald's neck for doing this to him, but he doesn't. He does what he's always done: endure.
He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, and goes inside himself to wait for it to be over, fingernails digging into the flesh of Iorveth's hand sharply enough to draw blood. ]
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Seconds stretch, turning into minutes; small, shattered bone start to realign where they should, and all the torn sinew and veins revert to their original states, albeit tentatively. Raw, aching.
After a few more beats of pure, white-hot pain, the cleric pulls his now non-glowing hands back. A bead of sweat has formed on his forehead, which he wipes away with a sleeve.
"―There. That was quite bad, wasn't it. Adventurers really should learn to take care of themselves better."
Iorveth really could kill him. He doesn't, obviously, but there's still murder in the glint of his eye, and he spits a rather harsh obscenity in his native language between his teeth before turning to Astarion. ]
Love. It's over.
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Oh.
[ His leg does feel better. Not good, but improved. Sturdier, like the shattered pieces have fused back together, but still sore, like they aren't exactly happy about the fact. It still looks awful, but he supposes he'll have to trust Reginald on the recovery timeframe.
Speaking of Reginald, Astarion doesn't have it in him to thank him, despite his kindness in coming over here at the crack of dawn to heal some stranger he doesn't even know. All he can say is: ] Gods below, I know it's an enticing sight, but surely one of you can hand me my trousers.
[ It feels like he's sitting in his underwear with half of Waterdeep as witnesses. ]
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Reginald, still chipper: "I'll be back again tomorrow to make sure everything's settling alright with the leg." Then, he glances towards Iorveth. "As for you..."
Migraine-wracked, face cut, hand bleeding, Iorveth looks every bit like a rabid fox. If he had fuzzy triangular ears, they would be sitting flat against his head, fur on end and hackles raised. ]
I don't require your help, [ he says with furious obstinacy, even though it really would be prudent to let Reginald tend to him. Iorveth is grateful, of course, that the cleric came all this way to heal Astarion in the only way that was likely available, but he's still furious that the halfling was so flippant about Astarion's pain. ]
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The right thing to do would be for Astarion to admit that he overreacted, and to encourage Iorveth to allow the healing. At least a little bit — perhaps his head might be more unpleasant, but to heal at least the marks Astarion left on his hand should be painless enough. But Astarion still feels shaken from— well, he's still shaken from murdering that man, much less the hag and now this. It isn't the worst day of his life by far—nothing could be, with Iorveth by his side—but it's not winning any awards for best, either. ]
I hate to see you in pain, [ is the most encouragement he can offer. He presses cool fingers lightly over the scratches on Iorveth's hand, frowning. He doesn't remember squeezing Iorveth quite this hard. ]
But it's your choice, my love. I'll tend to you if he doesn't.
[ "Far be it from me to minimize the healing power of love," Gale says, "but I'm not certain it cures a concussion." ]
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Thank you for your patronization, [ he clips between his teeth, at Gale. Dripping sarcasm, in boggling contrast to the gentleness with which he turns his hand over in Astarion's to tangle their fingers again. ] I feel it curing my concussion already.
[ Iorvethese for "hey, shut up". Not very nice of him, he knows― again, their friend is just trying to be helpful, and has done the work to do everything he can. That's the only thing that makes Iorveth relent somewhat, even though he stays hovered by Astarion's side like a vengeful wraith, spiritually hissing at anyone who gets too close. ]
...My head. And my face. To put my beloved at ease. [ He makes a crude motion with his free hand at Reginald in a brusque gesture for him to come closer, and the halfling obliges with cheerful exasperation. It's clear that he's experienced every permutation of difficult patients in addition to physical horrors, and he approaches Iorveth with somewhat unnerving patience.
"What you need is perspective," the old halfling says as he runs gold-glowing fingers over the scratches on Iorveth's face, first. Quick and easy, though the process stings― like having tiny needles poking rapidly over his skin. "You two need to spend more time away from each other. Inhabit each other less."
Sensible advice, probably. Iorveth bristles anyway. ]
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Astarion doesn't like looking at his own actions with a critical lens, of course, so he immediately goes on the defensive. ]
And when was the last time someone inhabited you, hm?
[ "Astarion!" Gale squeaks, horrified. ]
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Reginald, meanwhile, as chipper as ever, offers: "oh, me and my wife have quite the robust relationship! She travels often, but sometimes absence makes the heart fonder, if you know what I mean."
Wink wink, nudge nudge. "Master Reginald!", Gale gasps this time around. ]
ok iorveth is serving a bit in that pic
[ How dare you suggest Iorveth ever be apart from me, essentially. Maybe it's worry that Iorveth will come to love him less if they're not together every minute of every day. Maybe it's the fear that life will immediately become intolerable again with Iorveth to help him navigate it. Or maybe it's pure selfishness and that same desire he'd felt horribly embarrassed about all those months ago: to be close to Iorveth all the time.
It doesn't matter, in the end. If Iorveth doesn't plan to leave him, Astarion won't ever send him away. Iorveth's presence means safety and comfort, and he's loath to give that up for ridiculous ideas of 'being psychologically healthy' and 'not smothering your partner'.
As Iorveth sways forward, Astarion slides a hand up his arm, resting on his shoulder. ]
Is he supposed to look like this?
i'm gonna be so mad if he's in witcher 4 and they make him pretty
Therapy sessions will cost the pair extra, so Reginald wisely (???) backs off, dislodging Iorveth from his front to let him list against Astarion again.
"Just a suggestion, my lad," he winks again, before addressing Iorveth's slightly-woozy state. "And yes, he'll be fine－ fixing a concussion usually tends to make patients a little, hm, loopy. Brains are delicate things, after all. Try to keep him from doing anything too demanding for the next day or so. Best to stay inside and not be anywhere too bright!"
Patting Iorveth on the head, as if he's a big sullen dog. Iorveth opens his eye (he'd hardly noticed he'd closed it) and glares at the halfling with as much venom as he can muster. ]
Gods, you chatter. [ Says Iorveth, who is deeply in love with a serial yapper. It's fine when Astarion does it, because he loves Astarion. ] Thank you for your assistance, cleric, but you're fast overstaying your welcome.
do NOT defreak my elf
Gale is obviously dying of humiliation by this point, although in Astarion's opinion, he really should have expected it. Reginald is annoying, and neither Astarion nor Iorveth are the type to keep their derision inside. (Astarion should know, considering he's been the victim of Iorveth's derision many times before.)
"Actually," he says, approaching Reginald. "There is someone else I'd like you to take a look at, if you have a moment to spare. He's been through a rather harrowing few days, so it seems..."
Astarion doesn't really care what Reginald does with Damris, so he tunes Gale out at this point. Instead, he starts working on the arduous process of standing. The soreness, while incredibly mild compared to the crushing pain of having his leg shattered, is somehow worse. Astarion has always been very bad at tolerating minor discomfort. He groans, limping pathetically. ]
I've had enough of all of this, I think. [ Announcing his departure, like anyone cares: ] I'm going to retire to my room.
[ 'His' room. He really does think he owns the place. ]
slaps a 'do not yassify' on iorveth (but also upgrade him from xbox graphics i beg)
Iorveth gets up when Astarion does, woozily offering to let Astarion lean against him for the arduous journey up the stairs and to their (Gale's spare) bedroom. He's tired, fuzzy around the edges, and still fucking furious about everything, which means that he should probably be horizontal before he goes out and murders something for being a minor inconvenience. ]
Let's go, [ is all he offers, along with a curt nod to Reginald in lieu of more thanks.
And, with that, they travel up. On the way, they pass the room where Damris is being kept in－ the door is open, and when Damris sees Astarion limping along the hall, he smiles the brightest, most 'serves-you-right' smile that he can likely muster.
"It sounded like you were in a lot of pain," he calls out as the pair pass. "Poor thing!" ]
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Perhaps we should send the stray back to Athkatla.
[ He couldn't, no matter how much Damris irritates him. It would have been one thing to abandon him there, but it's quite another to offer hope (no matter how deranged) and then snatch it away. Astarion had been all right living an empty life with no hope for the future, but the moment he tasted freedom, the idea of ever going back had made him want to vomit.
So he just stomps lopsidedly away until they reach the guest room. It's only then, in the privacy of their bedroom, that it dawns on him that he feels like shit. Physically, mentally. It hits him like a ton of bricks, and he finds himself crawling into bed and curling into the fetal position fully-clothed, even his shoes still on. ]
You should have made him heal your hand.
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So he tries to take some of the thinking out of Astarion's equation. Sitting near him by the edge of the bed, Iorveth peels back enough of the blanket to get at Astarion's boots, unlacing them slowly to pull them off, one by one. Afterwards, he smooths the blanket back over Astarion and turns the lamplights off, makes sure that the curtains are pulled tight over the window. ]
I thought you might want the blood, [ is his reply, tired but light. Same old Iorveth, always preferring to present as fine, even when he was snarling and hissing at a halfling just moments ago. ] But you need the rest more, I think.
[ He sits by the foot of the bed again, vigilantly watching over the curled lump that Astarion's made himself into. ]
Also, the cleric was an ass.
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I won't argue with you on that point.
[ He really wasn't an ass. Astarion is an ass, and he feels a bit humiliated for having made such a scene. Reginald was probably right to keep going, even if it had made him feel awful. Still, he's happy to take the opportunity to insult someone who made him feel that way.
A silence stretches out, and then he huffs. ]
Are you just going to sit there like a gargoyle all night? Come here.
[ Unsurprisingly, he finds himself in the mood to bark orders. ]
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