[ Astarion practically glows with happiness. Yes, that's exactly how he feels. An absence of Iorveth would be too terrible to bear. It seems very clear that the way his life has gone has been "no Iorveth = awful" and "yes Iorveth = pretty good"; an Iorveth is necessary for things to be all right. ]
Luckily for you, I've already cheated death.
[ Sure, that's discounting the fact that he very much can still die if (and when, probably) someone gets irritated enough with him to kill him, but at least that pesky old age won't get him. ]
Vampirism has its drawbacks, to be sure, but at least I'm not a hideous zombie like that Conway fellow.
[ He's referring to Connor, Mayrina's poor husband. ]
[ Most people have existential crises about eternal life and what it means to outlive everything until the end of eternity, but clearly, Astarion is not Most People. Iorveth would be more concerned about Astarion's short-sightedness if not for the simple fact that he's become complicit in encouraging aspects of it.
He has no idea who the hells Conway is, though. (Rude.) Oh well. Probably no one important. (Double rude.) ]
Yes, yes. [ A verbal eyeroll, affectionate. ] Not a hideous zombie, but the most beautiful vampire in Toril's history.
[ This would have sounded far more snide and sarcastic before; unfortunately for Iorveth, he actually believes this to be true now, so the jab doesn't quite land. More importantly, and on a bit more of a somber note, Iorveth hums under his breath and appends: ]
If my quest for eternal life goes awry, [ translation: 'If I become a hideous zombie', ] I expect you to kill me.
[ Astarion settles close, pulling the covers over their lower halves, head nestled in the crook of Iorveth's shoulder. He simply couldn't be happier; an orgasm, a fiancé, and the promise of Iorveth's quest for eternal life—
Wait, what did Iorveth just say about his quest for eternal life?
Astarion pulls back to get a good look at his face, as if he thinks he might find Iorveth winking and laughing, because surely he's joking. No one would ever say such a ridiculous thing in all seriousness. He raises an eyebrow, wary. ]
I can't imagine how your quest for eternal life could ever go wrong.
[ It's eternal life. He doesn't care if Iorveth is a hideous zombie!! ]
So we really don't have to make any sort of contingency plan.
[ Iorveth's mentioned Astarion's expressive brows before, but he really is enamored by them. Even when they're hiked up in judgment. He smooths over it with a brow, evaluative. ]
I can imagine a few ways in which it can go wrong, foolish cat.
[ Not a single thought in that pretty head (affectionate). An indication of how much anxiety Astarion houses under that polished exterior, perhaps; an aversion to adding more to that expansive pile. ]
If I become a creature incapable of thought or reason, for one. Or if I become someone else entirely after gaining immortality.
[ Worst-case scenarios. He pets Astarion's hair again. ]
I don't wish to be anything but the Iorveth you know.
[ Astarion whines, shifting uncomfortably where he's lying. Why would Iorveth ruin his afterglow with such unpleasant thoughts? He doesn't like this at all. Not at all!! ]
Are you mad? [ he finally says, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. Unfortunately, he already knows the answer is probably 'yes', so he doesn't leave Iorveth time to respond to that. Iorveth is insane, and most of the time, Astarion adores that about him, but not when he's asking him to, what, put Iorveth out of his potential future misery like a rabid dog? ]
[ Iorveth is capable of ruining so many good things. But he also thinks that a disclaimer like this is necessary if they're going to finagle a way to make him immortal, which is a task that everyone would have managed if it were safe or easy. Chances are that the process will be hard and possibly very ruinous, so he should be prepared for the worst.
Like, say, turning into a hideous zombie. He sighs when Astarion whines and cards his fingers gently through soft curls again, fully expecting the continued affection to placate Astarion somewhat. ]
Why not?
[ Still petting, still cuddled close. ] I doubt you'd want to be saddled with an unthinking creature who resembles nothing of me.
[ To the tune of "Astarion, you gotta love yourself more than this." ]
[ The continued affection does placate him... somewhat. Astarion can't help but lean into Iorveth's touch, an insuppressible bodily reaction. The desire to be cuddled outweighs all rational thought, unfortunately. Still: ]
—Because, [ is another petulant whine. He can't believe, actually, that Iorveth is asking 'why not'. Would Iorveth kill him if he were an ugly zombie?
Better not to think about such impossibilities. He'll never be ugly. ]
I would... find a way to fix you. [ After dragging around his decaying corpse, just like Mayrina did to Conway— er, Connor. ] It's as if you've never heard of the healing power of true love.
[ Do as Iorveth says, and not as Iorveth does (he would absolutely drag Astarion's zombie around in search of a cure, but thAT'S NOT THE POINT). A moment passes where he looks like he might be exasperated by the pushback, but then Astarion has the gall to say things like "the healing power of true love", and he kind of just wants to roll Astarion onto his back and kiss him all over instead.
Ugh. Sweet vampire, making Iorveth feel some type of way. His hand slides from Astarion's hair down to his face, thumb gliding over his cheek, his jaw, smoothing along a pout. Iorveth continues that for a few lingering seconds before pressing his lips to that frown, annoyed and smitten in equal measure.
Once he pulls back: ]
You're more of a romantic than I thought.
[ This time, to the tune of "you're so stupid, and I love you entirely". ]
Ridiculous. [ A sigh, verging on a bemused chuckle. ] More ridiculous yet, I believe you.
[ Maybe Astarion is stupid because Iorveth keeps rewarding him for being stupid with things like kisses. Soon, he'll get a Pavlovian reaction of unexplained joy whenever he does something particularly harebrained. Astarion leans in to kiss him back, no longer frowning; he'd thought kissing Iorveth to be a cheat code for happiness on demand once upon a time, and now he knows that's unequivocally true. ]
As you should. I'd be your knight in leather armor, my dear.
[ When will Iorveth get it into his thick head that the only thing worth doing in this world is protecting him? If Astarion can't do that, then there's no point in doing anything at all. ]
But you needn't worry your pretty little head about any of that. [ A pat to the aforementioned pretty head. ] We won't be making any deals with hags, of course. A devil at the very most.
[ A devil, Gods. Raphael was annoying enough, but maybe the next one they run across will inspire slightly less of a kneejerk cringe reaction. ]
Hm.
[ Effectively patted into submission (a feat only Astarion could manage), Iorveth tucks his face into silver hair and gives up, for now, on the arduous task of Thinking About What to Do. They're still entitled to doing lazy post-sex victory laps about having done 1 (one) thing successfully, loath as Iorveth is to being complacent. ]
If we ever do encounter a devil and his infernal contracts, I trust you to read the fine print on my behalf, Magistrate Ancunín.
[ Astarion winning a legal spar against a hellspawn would be pretty sexy, actually. Iorveth hums under his breath, letting his mind wander. ]
[ Proof that there's a lid for every pot: Iorveth responds to Astarion's suggestion that they enter legal negotiations with a devil with astoundingly little fuss. The ugly business of having to mercy-kill Iorveth set aside, Astarion relaxes again, melting into Iorveth's presence once more. He's surprisingly chill as long as everything goes his way forever. ]
I wouldn't dream of not thoroughly reading a contract. Who am I, Wyll?
[ Mean. But also, he stands by it. Wyll really should have taken the time to pore over the finer details! ]
Mm. I'll even put on little spectacles, if you like.
[ Maybe bang a gavel. Say something like 'overruled'. Who knows? ]
[ The bias filter slides back on: weak to the feeling of Astarion relaxing, weaker still to the idea of Astarion being content. Not a great thing to reinforce the idea that tantrums will be rewarded with doting, but whatever. Iorveth will find a different day to actually fight with Astarion, if the need presents itself.
Cuddled close, Iorveth moves Astarion's injured hand so that he doesn't accidentally roll on top of it or brush against it unnecessarily. He lets it rest at his hip, and puts his palm over the wrist, keeping it in place. ]
It'd be the first time you ever paid attention to details. [ Fucking rude!!!! A mean statement punctuated with a kiss to the crown of Astarion's head. ] And you'd look fetching doing so.
[ Little lenses perched on that perfect nose, chin hiked imperiously to deliver a verdict. Iorveth hums again. ]
[ Astarion would react poorly to anyone else moving parts of him around and keeping them in place, but Iorveth has special permissions; it doesn't feel as if Iorveth is trying to restrict him, not in any meaningful way. It feels more like being held close, and there's nothing Astarion loves more than being held by him. (An embarrassing fact he's had to come to terms with.) ]
Well, I don't usually need to pay attention to details, [ he argues, because Iorveth can't just say something mean and then immediately compliment him and think it'll balance out!
All right, it kind of balanced out. The praise softens any edges he might have, and the argument is toothless. ]
I have you to do that. Excessively, some might say.
[ It's not particularly rare for wood elves to huddle close in trusted company, but Iorveth has never really cuddled like this before, or felt a particular inclination to stay so close to one person for an extended period of time. He's been asked, and he's answered, but Astarion still feels― for lack of a better term― special.
Speaking of details, though. There are a million things that Iorveth could be doing right now, instead of the aforementioned cuddling. Cloak conversion plans with Gale, checking in on Damris, buying salve and potions for Astarion's hand, restocking supplies, et cetera, ad infinitum.
Instead: ] I wonder what would happen if I made you make all of our decisions for us for the next tenday.
[ If Astarion is so averse to Iorveth overthinking!!! Iorveth isn't actually offended, though. Curious, mostly. A little guilty, too, for occupying Astarion's first few forays into freedom with a lot of his own bullshit. ]
[ The truth is that Astarion doesn't particularly want to make any big decisions. Independence is a lofty goal, but after so long without a single ounce of autonomy, it's challenging to even know what he wants to do half the time, much less actually make the call. Cazador would probably say something like a dog without a master will always seek one, but he doesn't think of it that way. He can trust Iorveth to make the decisions that his brain is too fried to make.
All of that feels a bit heavy for an afternoon of post-coital lazing around, though, so instead he says, ] You'd spend the next tenday walking around gloriously nude.
[ And then Astarion would get pettily angry at anyone whose eyes lingered too long, and they'd probably argue. ]
[ Headlines: "Local terrorist walks outside with his junk fully exposed, gets caught by Waterdhavian guards. Wizard friend does not post bail." Iorveth laughs at the thought of it, and how ignoble it would be if that was the reason the Woodland Fox finally got manacles clapped on him again, but. You know. Might be interesting.
It's fine, he thinks, if Astarion doesn't have grand goals. He doesn't have to. The great thing about freedom is that you can use it to do whatever the hells you want, and after two hundred years of vacillating wildly between excessive torture and mind-shattering isolation, it's reasonable to want to just. Do nothing.
The problem is Iorveth. (It always tends to play out that way.) Antsy, without purpose. A little terrified of being useless. He's put that fear in a box for now, happy in Astarion's company, but he knows it'll rear its ugly head soon enough. ]
...I'm going to trance a bit, to be more lucid for the evening. [ Admittedly tired from the hag shenanigans, still. His eye closes, and he slowly relinquishes his hold on Astarion. ] If you wish to spend some time in the sun, I'll not keep you here.
[ The sun!! Still an amazing feat, as far as Iorveth is concerned. ]
[ Hesitant to be relinquished, Astarion reaches out to rub a thumb across Iorveth's cheek. ] You are my sun. [ And because he's in a very romantic mood, he doesn't even make a quip about Iorveth being the only thing he wants to be in. He kisses Iorveth on the cheek, disgustingly affectionate. ]
—But I suppose I could stand to start working on that tan.
[ He's going to look soooo healthy and not at all dead, just you wait. Astarion sits up, gingerly swinging his injured leg off of the mattress and standing. He limps over to the wardrobe, plucking a pair of pants from within its depths. Gods forbid he traumatize poor Gale by gallivanting around the place pantsless, and besides, he'd rather not show off his ugly bruises. ]
And perhaps I might peruse Gale's exorbitant collection of dusty old tomes. If there's anywhere a secret cure to mortality might be found, it's there.
[ The tan quip is always going to make Iorveth laugh, because it's so absurd. It's more likely that Astarion will get sunburnt in a way that has nothing to do with vampiric intolerance to light, and complain about it incessantly until Iorveth finds some lotion to rub on him. The most high-maintenance man in the world.
Unfortunately (?) for Iorveth, he loves Astarion and the fact that he can manifest drama out of anything (pot, kettle, etc.), so that's that. ]
I'll not entertain any cure that involves kissing Mystra's feet, [ or whatever weird freaky shit that Gale got up to, when he was her Chosen. Iorveth has heard of certain god-favored individuals living far past their natural lifespans, but Gods, not Mystra. ]
But, hm. [ A little wave of one hand, as he presses himself into pillows. Missing Astarion already, but comforted by the residual scent of him on their bedsheets. ] Go tell Gale the good news, love. He'll be in need of it.
[ He's going to be ecstatic. He might even give Astarion a hug, and be very sweet, and embarrass Astarion with glowing amounts of pure, unfiltered friendship. ]
[ It sounds like a gripe, complete with a dramatic groan, but Astarion can't suppress the upward turn of his mouth at the thought of Gale's entirely unselfish joy. He takes the cloak and slings it over his shoulders, tying it tightly so that it doesn't accidentally slide off. One last look at Iorveth, and—
He returns to the side of the bed to kiss him again, this time on the top of his head. Reginald definitely had a point about their codependence, but he's in no position to listen to it. He unlocks the door and leaves Iorveth to rest.
Gale does, in fact, hug him. Tightly, and Astarion makes a whole scene of pretending to be put out by it. Gale tears up a little, and Astarion pokes fun at that, too, although it's toothless. Afterward, he allows Gale to ask whatever questions he wishes, although he doesn't have many good answers for most of them, something Gale finds out when he asks a question about the Cloak of Dragomir and Astarion furrows his brow and says cloak of who?
He requests that Gale allow him to explore his library after that, but as he's hesitant to come right out and explain that he's looking for a way to cheat death, he simply says that he's interested in learning more about magic— and gods, is that a mistake. Gale comes back with a stack of books so high that he can barely see from behind them, explaining that it's a collection for beginner wizards — "Usually seven or eight years old, but the basic principles are invaluable no matter your age!"
By the time evening rolls around, Gale paces in front of him in the sitting room, launching into his third lecture on magic while Astarion can barely keep his eyes open. "Now, the Spellplague was a disaster heretofore never experienced by practitioners of the arcane arts. Cyric, as well as our good friend's former Lady, Shar herself— are you listening?" ]
[ Trancing without Astarion by his side turns out to be an interesting affair― a strange floating in liminal space, interspersed with occasional flashes of the past in varying degrees of nearness. The hag, Astarion in sunlight, his childhood, Isengrim.
When he finally pulls out of the trance's gauzelike haze, Iorveth feels... not well-rested, per se, but less liable to get a migraine from fatigue. He pulls a fresh set of clothes on, goes to the washroom to freshen up, and tidies up his appearance a bit: he toys with the idea of braiding his hair, and ultimately weaves one neat braid that sits primly over his left ear, framing the unmarred side of his face.
With that done, he puts on his usual scent and makes his way downstairs, where Gale is apparently celebrating Astarion's victory by torturing him. ]
He's not listening, [ Iorveth answers on Astarion's behalf, brow raised and lips arched in a small smile. ] But I see I'm interrupting something important. Perhaps I'll go for a walk.
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Luckily for you, I've already cheated death.
[ Sure, that's discounting the fact that he very much can still die if (and when, probably) someone gets irritated enough with him to kill him, but at least that pesky old age won't get him. ]
Vampirism has its drawbacks, to be sure, but at least I'm not a hideous zombie like that Conway fellow.
[ He's referring to Connor, Mayrina's poor husband. ]
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He has no idea who the hells Conway is, though. (Rude.) Oh well. Probably no one important. (Double rude.) ]
Yes, yes. [ A verbal eyeroll, affectionate. ] Not a hideous zombie, but the most beautiful vampire in Toril's history.
[ This would have sounded far more snide and sarcastic before; unfortunately for Iorveth, he actually believes this to be true now, so the jab doesn't quite land. More importantly, and on a bit more of a somber note, Iorveth hums under his breath and appends: ]
If my quest for eternal life goes awry, [ translation: 'If I become a hideous zombie', ] I expect you to kill me.
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Wait, what did Iorveth just say about his quest for eternal life?
Astarion pulls back to get a good look at his face, as if he thinks he might find Iorveth winking and laughing, because surely he's joking. No one would ever say such a ridiculous thing in all seriousness. He raises an eyebrow, wary. ]
I can't imagine how your quest for eternal life could ever go wrong.
[ It's eternal life. He doesn't care if Iorveth is a hideous zombie!! ]
So we really don't have to make any sort of contingency plan.
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I can imagine a few ways in which it can go wrong, foolish cat.
[ Not a single thought in that pretty head (affectionate). An indication of how much anxiety Astarion houses under that polished exterior, perhaps; an aversion to adding more to that expansive pile. ]
If I become a creature incapable of thought or reason, for one. Or if I become someone else entirely after gaining immortality.
[ Worst-case scenarios. He pets Astarion's hair again. ]
I don't wish to be anything but the Iorveth you know.
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[ Astarion whines, shifting uncomfortably where he's lying. Why would Iorveth ruin his afterglow with such unpleasant thoughts? He doesn't like this at all. Not at all!! ]
Are you mad? [ he finally says, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. Unfortunately, he already knows the answer is probably 'yes', so he doesn't leave Iorveth time to respond to that. Iorveth is insane, and most of the time, Astarion adores that about him, but not when he's asking him to, what, put Iorveth out of his potential future misery like a rabid dog? ]
I'm not going to kill you.
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Like, say, turning into a hideous zombie. He sighs when Astarion whines and cards his fingers gently through soft curls again, fully expecting the continued affection to placate Astarion somewhat. ]
Why not?
[ Still petting, still cuddled close. ] I doubt you'd want to be saddled with an unthinking creature who resembles nothing of me.
[ To the tune of "Astarion, you gotta love yourself more than this." ]
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—Because, [ is another petulant whine. He can't believe, actually, that Iorveth is asking 'why not'. Would Iorveth kill him if he were an ugly zombie?
Better not to think about such impossibilities. He'll never be ugly. ]
I would... find a way to fix you. [ After dragging around his decaying corpse, just like Mayrina did to Conway— er, Connor. ] It's as if you've never heard of the healing power of true love.
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Ugh. Sweet vampire, making Iorveth feel some type of way. His hand slides from Astarion's hair down to his face, thumb gliding over his cheek, his jaw, smoothing along a pout. Iorveth continues that for a few lingering seconds before pressing his lips to that frown, annoyed and smitten in equal measure.
Once he pulls back: ]
You're more of a romantic than I thought.
[ This time, to the tune of "you're so stupid, and I love you entirely". ]
Ridiculous. [ A sigh, verging on a bemused chuckle. ] More ridiculous yet, I believe you.
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As you should. I'd be your knight in leather armor, my dear.
[ When will Iorveth get it into his thick head that the only thing worth doing in this world is protecting him? If Astarion can't do that, then there's no point in doing anything at all. ]
But you needn't worry your pretty little head about any of that. [ A pat to the aforementioned pretty head. ] We won't be making any deals with hags, of course. A devil at the very most.
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Hm.
[ Effectively patted into submission (a feat only Astarion could manage), Iorveth tucks his face into silver hair and gives up, for now, on the arduous task of Thinking About What to Do. They're still entitled to doing lazy post-sex victory laps about having done 1 (one) thing successfully, loath as Iorveth is to being complacent. ]
If we ever do encounter a devil and his infernal contracts, I trust you to read the fine print on my behalf, Magistrate Ancunín.
[ Astarion winning a legal spar against a hellspawn would be pretty sexy, actually. Iorveth hums under his breath, letting his mind wander. ]
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I wouldn't dream of not thoroughly reading a contract. Who am I, Wyll?
[ Mean. But also, he stands by it. Wyll really should have taken the time to pore over the finer details! ]
Mm. I'll even put on little spectacles, if you like.
[ Maybe bang a gavel. Say something like 'overruled'. Who knows? ]
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Cuddled close, Iorveth moves Astarion's injured hand so that he doesn't accidentally roll on top of it or brush against it unnecessarily. He lets it rest at his hip, and puts his palm over the wrist, keeping it in place. ]
It'd be the first time you ever paid attention to details. [ Fucking rude!!!! A mean statement punctuated with a kiss to the crown of Astarion's head. ] And you'd look fetching doing so.
[ Little lenses perched on that perfect nose, chin hiked imperiously to deliver a verdict. Iorveth hums again. ]
You are striking when you're confident.
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Well, I don't usually need to pay attention to details, [ he argues, because Iorveth can't just say something mean and then immediately compliment him and think it'll balance out!
All right, it kind of balanced out. The praise softens any edges he might have, and the argument is toothless. ]
I have you to do that. Excessively, some might say.
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Speaking of details, though. There are a million things that Iorveth could be doing right now, instead of the aforementioned cuddling. Cloak conversion plans with Gale, checking in on Damris, buying salve and potions for Astarion's hand, restocking supplies, et cetera, ad infinitum.
Instead: ] I wonder what would happen if I made you make all of our decisions for us for the next tenday.
[ If Astarion is so averse to Iorveth overthinking!!! Iorveth isn't actually offended, though. Curious, mostly. A little guilty, too, for occupying Astarion's first few forays into freedom with a lot of his own bullshit. ]
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All of that feels a bit heavy for an afternoon of post-coital lazing around, though, so instead he says, ] You'd spend the next tenday walking around gloriously nude.
[ And then Astarion would get pettily angry at anyone whose eyes lingered too long, and they'd probably argue. ]
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[ Headlines: "Local terrorist walks outside with his junk fully exposed, gets caught by Waterdhavian guards. Wizard friend does not post bail." Iorveth laughs at the thought of it, and how ignoble it would be if that was the reason the Woodland Fox finally got manacles clapped on him again, but. You know. Might be interesting.
It's fine, he thinks, if Astarion doesn't have grand goals. He doesn't have to. The great thing about freedom is that you can use it to do whatever the hells you want, and after two hundred years of vacillating wildly between excessive torture and mind-shattering isolation, it's reasonable to want to just. Do nothing.
The problem is Iorveth. (It always tends to play out that way.) Antsy, without purpose. A little terrified of being useless. He's put that fear in a box for now, happy in Astarion's company, but he knows it'll rear its ugly head soon enough. ]
...I'm going to trance a bit, to be more lucid for the evening. [ Admittedly tired from the hag shenanigans, still. His eye closes, and he slowly relinquishes his hold on Astarion. ] If you wish to spend some time in the sun, I'll not keep you here.
[ The sun!! Still an amazing feat, as far as Iorveth is concerned. ]
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—But I suppose I could stand to start working on that tan.
[ He's going to look soooo healthy and not at all dead, just you wait. Astarion sits up, gingerly swinging his injured leg off of the mattress and standing. He limps over to the wardrobe, plucking a pair of pants from within its depths. Gods forbid he traumatize poor Gale by gallivanting around the place pantsless, and besides, he'd rather not show off his ugly bruises. ]
And perhaps I might peruse Gale's exorbitant collection of dusty old tomes. If there's anywhere a secret cure to mortality might be found, it's there.
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Unfortunately (?) for Iorveth, he loves Astarion and the fact that he can manifest drama out of anything (pot, kettle, etc.), so that's that. ]
I'll not entertain any cure that involves kissing Mystra's feet, [ or whatever weird freaky shit that Gale got up to, when he was her Chosen. Iorveth has heard of certain god-favored individuals living far past their natural lifespans, but Gods, not Mystra. ]
But, hm. [ A little wave of one hand, as he presses himself into pillows. Missing Astarion already, but comforted by the residual scent of him on their bedsheets. ] Go tell Gale the good news, love. He'll be in need of it.
[ He's going to be ecstatic. He might even give Astarion a hug, and be very sweet, and embarrass Astarion with glowing amounts of pure, unfiltered friendship. ]
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[ It sounds like a gripe, complete with a dramatic groan, but Astarion can't suppress the upward turn of his mouth at the thought of Gale's entirely unselfish joy. He takes the cloak and slings it over his shoulders, tying it tightly so that it doesn't accidentally slide off. One last look at Iorveth, and—
He returns to the side of the bed to kiss him again, this time on the top of his head. Reginald definitely had a point about their codependence, but he's in no position to listen to it. He unlocks the door and leaves Iorveth to rest.
Gale does, in fact, hug him. Tightly, and Astarion makes a whole scene of pretending to be put out by it. Gale tears up a little, and Astarion pokes fun at that, too, although it's toothless. Afterward, he allows Gale to ask whatever questions he wishes, although he doesn't have many good answers for most of them, something Gale finds out when he asks a question about the Cloak of Dragomir and Astarion furrows his brow and says cloak of who?
He requests that Gale allow him to explore his library after that, but as he's hesitant to come right out and explain that he's looking for a way to cheat death, he simply says that he's interested in learning more about magic— and gods, is that a mistake. Gale comes back with a stack of books so high that he can barely see from behind them, explaining that it's a collection for beginner wizards — "Usually seven or eight years old, but the basic principles are invaluable no matter your age!"
By the time evening rolls around, Gale paces in front of him in the sitting room, launching into his third lecture on magic while Astarion can barely keep his eyes open. "Now, the Spellplague was a disaster heretofore never experienced by practitioners of the arcane arts. Cyric, as well as our good friend's former Lady, Shar herself— are you listening?" ]
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When he finally pulls out of the trance's gauzelike haze, Iorveth feels... not well-rested, per se, but less liable to get a migraine from fatigue. He pulls a fresh set of clothes on, goes to the washroom to freshen up, and tidies up his appearance a bit: he toys with the idea of braiding his hair, and ultimately weaves one neat braid that sits primly over his left ear, framing the unmarred side of his face.
With that done, he puts on his usual scent and makes his way downstairs, where Gale is apparently celebrating Astarion's victory by torturing him. ]
He's not listening, [ Iorveth answers on Astarion's behalf, brow raised and lips arched in a small smile. ] But I see I'm interrupting something important. Perhaps I'll go for a walk.
[ Mean!!! ]