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. ]
[ Reginald was not, in fact, an ass. He was patient, and capable, and put up with a lot of fussing from demanding elves, but Iorveth is far too protective of Astarion right now to defend Reginald's honor over Astarion's feelings; if it'd been Lae'zel or Wyll in Astarion's position, Iorveth would most definitely have told them to grit their teeth and bear it.
It's hard to be objective about someone when their fate is more important to you than your own. Being barked at by anyone would usually make Iorveth's teeth ache, like biting into foil, but in this specific context, he welcomes it. It's the one he was waiting for, so he obliges without question, peeling off his own boots and slipping next to Astarion to wrap his arms around that huddled form as best he can. ]
Mm, [ he hums, as he settles. ] No matter how exhausting the day, this takes the edge off of it.
[ A light squeeze, as punctuation. A truly horrendous affair would end with them separated, he thinks: Iorveth still in Athkatla, Astarion in Waterdeep. He doesn't speak that into existence, lest they turn into famous last words. ]
[ It does take the edge off. Iorveth is perfectly-shaped for their bodies to slot together, and being embraced by him feels like comfort rather than smothering. Putting aside things like love and desire, Iorveth makes him feel safe, if only in the protective confines of his arms. The world still feels frightening and threatening to him most of the time, but this tiny little part of the world doesn't.
He lets another moment of silence pass, before mustering the courage to blurt out, ] I don't want to trance again.
[ He feels like he could throw up, actually. But Iorveth might not want to cuddle him if he says that. He also feels bone-tired, like if he doesn't trance willingly soon then he'll probably be unwillingly unconscious at some point. ]
It's heinously foolish, I know. You don't have to tell me. [ Preemptively defensive. If he tells Iorveth that he thinks his feelings are stupid, maybe Iorveth won't think that they are. ] It's just that— it's worse to relive it now that I have something to lose.
[ A horrible thing, to feel betrayed by the existence you have to inhabit. Wanting one thing, but feeling something entirely different. It's agony, Iorveth assumes, not stupid; nesting Astarion a little closer, he rests his chin against silver hair and frowns. ]
...You can speak without fear of judgment.
[ A hand slides up Astarion's back, resting between shoulderblades. Bracing and holding against emotional impact (the worst kind of pain). ]
What makes it "worse" for you?
[ Again, if Astarion wants to talk about it. This time, Iorveth knows better than to threaten him with logical advice; this time, he genuinely only wishes to know. ]
[ A long moment passes, during which Iorveth would be rational to think that Astarion doesn't intend to answer. It isn't that he doesn't want to, because he does. He trusts Iorveth to hold his fragile emotions in his hand without crushing them. It's himself he doesn't trust with them.
Finally: ] In the nightmares, I often come to think that all of this is the dream, and that I've really just woken up.
[ There is no worse thing that could happen to him. The feeling that none of the happiest moments of his life were ever even real is the lowest he's ever felt. ]
You are everything good in this world, you know.
[ He probably shouldn't say this. Iorveth might try to lecture him, again, about how there's still good experiences in the world that have nothing to do with him. On some level, he realizes that this is true, but on a purely emotional level—the level he operates on most frequently—it seems that there's no happiness he's ever felt that Iorveth's fingerprints aren't all over. ]
[ This is probably what Reginald (and Iorveth of spiritual yesteryear) meant when he said they need distance: it's no good to hinge one's entire concept of goodness or happiness on one person. Better to disperse it, better to discover it all around them, in order to make the world feel less threatening. Iorveth is not, in fact, everything good in the world－ he's not even good in the conventional sense at all－ and Astarion owes it to himself to make that discovery so that he can navigate things with a clearer, more secure mindset.
Iorveth should say as much. Maybe on a different day, though. Not now, when they both feel like shit and the world does present itself as a challenge they have to wade through. ]
As are you.
[ So. No pushback. Just an unhinged reciprocation, mirroring intensity. ]
You're free now, [ is another affirmation to add to the pile, palm moving from Astarion's back to his face, thumbing his jaw slowly. ] No one can take anything from you.
[ Iorveth can't possibly know what a relief it is to have his unhealthy, codependent energy met rather than fought against. He doesn't care about what's good for him. He only cares about what makes his very, very long life tolerable. ]
That hag almost did, [ he says with disgust and hatred alike, fingers reaching out to twist in the fabric of Iorveth's shirt as if that might keep him there forever. ] ...And Alkam.
[ Two attempts on Iorveth's life during their trip to Athkatla. What a horrid fucking place. He wants to go somewhere where no one will ever touch either of them with malice ever again, but it seems nearly impossible. Everywhere they go, there are people who want to hurt them. Not for the first time, Astarion finds his mind wandering to the ascension-that-wasn't. ]
I should be the one returning to Athkatla for revenge.
[ He won't, because the difference between them is that Astarion is a coward. If he ever so much as saw the hag again, he'd shake like a leaf. ]
[ Baby steps. The longer they spend out in the world, maybe Astarion will find more things to like about it. Wishful thinking on Iorveth's part, maybe, given that the entire world is constantly looking for ways to kill the both of them (sometimes for good reason), but in a century from now, maybe the plight of the elves will have gotten better, and maybe Iorveth will no longer need to buy people's anger to keep his kin safe. That might give him more space to let Astarion enjoy peace.
May, maybe, might. A lot of hypotheticals. Still, at the very least, at least they have some sort of future together, which is more than Iorveth could ever have asked for before, with his reticence to say "stay with me". ]
Mm.
You are beautiful when you're angry and dressed in blood. [ A deranged reaction to someone saying they want to get revenge. The sensible thing to say would be something along the lines of "revenge doesn't solve anything so you don't have to do that, I'm fine," but Iorveth, the most vengeful elf in Toril, would be lying if he did.
A beat later, he softens and shifts to press a kiss to Astarion's temple, the faint sharp sting of preservative fluid still on his hair. ] But I would rather burn the entirety of Athkatla before I allowed you to be hurt within its walls again.
[ Unironically. Perhaps he has a skewed view of romance, but everything Iorveth says to him feels like the most romantic thing anyone has ever said in the history of time. Some might find Iorveth to be too intense, too morally-challenged — but there could be no one more perfect for Astarion, in his very unbiased opinion. He won't ever believe in the gods' meddling, not when they let him suffer for so long, but Iorveth's existence is almost enough to believe in divine providence. ]
I'm not opposed to burning the whole place down and starting fresh, but— well, we can talk about that later.
[ Clearly, though, the mere idea of torching a large city to the ground has lifted his spirits.
Another moment of contemplation, and he adds, ] What do you think the chances are that our rescue kitten claws us while we rest?
[ Slow, gentle petting through flyaway curls, to make sure that Astarion knows that this isn't a dream. Iorveth is still thinking about that fragile confession, the fear that one day Astarion will have the rug pulled out from under him again－ neither stupid nor unfounded－ which makes Iorveth feel even more protective than he already does.
He laughs about 'rescue kitten', though. ] I thought you were opposed to referring to him as a cat. [ Let alone a kitten. Very cute.
Knuckles brushing along Astarion's cheek, Iorveth notes the lingering dark circles, the lingering signs of puffiness from when he'd maybe, maybe cried. (Making Astarion cry is worse than a war crime by Iorveth's standards; he will fucking kill the hag, one day.) ]
I doubt he'll try anything. If Gale played his role correctly [ "terminal do-gooder far too ambitious for his own good" ], I expect Damris will have been charmed into not holding a knife against our throats.
[ But, like. It might be fun. Iorveth's tone suggests that he might look at Damris more favorably if he tries it, which says too much about him. ]
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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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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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It's hard to be objective about someone when their fate is more important to you than your own. Being barked at by anyone would usually make Iorveth's teeth ache, like biting into foil, but in this specific context, he welcomes it. It's the one he was waiting for, so he obliges without question, peeling off his own boots and slipping next to Astarion to wrap his arms around that huddled form as best he can. ]
Mm, [ he hums, as he settles. ] No matter how exhausting the day, this takes the edge off of it.
[ A light squeeze, as punctuation. A truly horrendous affair would end with them separated, he thinks: Iorveth still in Athkatla, Astarion in Waterdeep. He doesn't speak that into existence, lest they turn into famous last words. ]
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He lets another moment of silence pass, before mustering the courage to blurt out, ] I don't want to trance again.
[ He feels like he could throw up, actually. But Iorveth might not want to cuddle him if he says that. He also feels bone-tired, like if he doesn't trance willingly soon then he'll probably be unwillingly unconscious at some point. ]
It's heinously foolish, I know. You don't have to tell me. [ Preemptively defensive. If he tells Iorveth that he thinks his feelings are stupid, maybe Iorveth won't think that they are. ] It's just that— it's worse to relive it now that I have something to lose.
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...You can speak without fear of judgment.
[ A hand slides up Astarion's back, resting between shoulderblades. Bracing and holding against emotional impact (the worst kind of pain). ]
What makes it "worse" for you?
[ Again, if Astarion wants to talk about it. This time, Iorveth knows better than to threaten him with logical advice; this time, he genuinely only wishes to know. ]
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Finally: ] In the nightmares, I often come to think that all of this is the dream, and that I've really just woken up.
[ There is no worse thing that could happen to him. The feeling that none of the happiest moments of his life were ever even real is the lowest he's ever felt. ]
You are everything good in this world, you know.
[ He probably shouldn't say this. Iorveth might try to lecture him, again, about how there's still good experiences in the world that have nothing to do with him. On some level, he realizes that this is true, but on a purely emotional level—the level he operates on most frequently—it seems that there's no happiness he's ever felt that Iorveth's fingerprints aren't all over. ]
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Iorveth should say as much. Maybe on a different day, though. Not now, when they both feel like shit and the world does present itself as a challenge they have to wade through. ]
As are you.
[ So. No pushback. Just an unhinged reciprocation, mirroring intensity. ]
You're free now, [ is another affirmation to add to the pile, palm moving from Astarion's back to his face, thumbing his jaw slowly. ] No one can take anything from you.
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That hag almost did, [ he says with disgust and hatred alike, fingers reaching out to twist in the fabric of Iorveth's shirt as if that might keep him there forever. ] ...And Alkam.
[ Two attempts on Iorveth's life during their trip to Athkatla. What a horrid fucking place. He wants to go somewhere where no one will ever touch either of them with malice ever again, but it seems nearly impossible. Everywhere they go, there are people who want to hurt them. Not for the first time, Astarion finds his mind wandering to the ascension-that-wasn't. ]
I should be the one returning to Athkatla for revenge.
[ He won't, because the difference between them is that Astarion is a coward. If he ever so much as saw the hag again, he'd shake like a leaf. ]
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May, maybe, might. A lot of hypotheticals. Still, at the very least, at least they have some sort of future together, which is more than Iorveth could ever have asked for before, with his reticence to say "stay with me". ]
Mm.
You are beautiful when you're angry and dressed in blood. [ A deranged reaction to someone saying they want to get revenge. The sensible thing to say would be something along the lines of "revenge doesn't solve anything so you don't have to do that, I'm fine," but Iorveth, the most vengeful elf in Toril, would be lying if he did.
A beat later, he softens and shifts to press a kiss to Astarion's temple, the faint sharp sting of preservative fluid still on his hair. ] But I would rather burn the entirety of Athkatla before I allowed you to be hurt within its walls again.
[ Again. Not a good person. ]
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[ Unironically. Perhaps he has a skewed view of romance, but everything Iorveth says to him feels like the most romantic thing anyone has ever said in the history of time. Some might find Iorveth to be too intense, too morally-challenged — but there could be no one more perfect for Astarion, in his very unbiased opinion. He won't ever believe in the gods' meddling, not when they let him suffer for so long, but Iorveth's existence is almost enough to believe in divine providence. ]
I'm not opposed to burning the whole place down and starting fresh, but— well, we can talk about that later.
[ Clearly, though, the mere idea of torching a large city to the ground has lifted his spirits.
Another moment of contemplation, and he adds, ] What do you think the chances are that our rescue kitten claws us while we rest?
[ Damris. ]
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He laughs about 'rescue kitten', though. ] I thought you were opposed to referring to him as a cat. [ Let alone a kitten. Very cute.
Knuckles brushing along Astarion's cheek, Iorveth notes the lingering dark circles, the lingering signs of puffiness from when he'd maybe, maybe cried. (Making Astarion cry is worse than a war crime by Iorveth's standards; he will fucking kill the hag, one day.) ]
I doubt he'll try anything. If Gale played his role correctly [ "terminal do-gooder far too ambitious for his own good" ], I expect Damris will have been charmed into not holding a knife against our throats.
[ But, like. It might be fun. Iorveth's tone suggests that he might look at Damris more favorably if he tries it, which says too much about him. ]
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