[ She hovers, and so does he. For a moment, both of them are suspended there, tempted by the idea of familiarity (of intimacy in its broadest sense) but, for reasons similar and dissimilar both, simultaneously too old and too young to know what to do about it.

The moment breaks when she steps forward, when the little hen takes the onus of action. Shadowheart clucks back — and when she nips at Lauralae's ankles, now, it is not to partake but to preen in turn. She remembers her, of course. The bird with night-feathers, to whom she'd entrusted more than one secret.

All that there is for Astarion to reckon with, now, are the words that leave her mouth: I wish to protect you. A breath of laughter escapes him — a clear marker of surprise rather than mockery. I don't think anyone's thought of me that way since I was a child, are the words he swallows down, to rest with the pang in his chest that makes him feel— sad? Sad, happy, certain, unsure, all at once. Yet another dueling instinct, the desire to be thought of that way butting up against the rock of bitterness that has crystallized with him, that wants nothing but the power to ensure he'll never need anyone's help. ]

Well! Then we'll just have to protect each other, now, won't we?

[ He crosses the room, then, opening the door to the bathroom (and the adjoining suite beyond). It's been empty for a little while, now — a strange loss, though one would never be able to tell from looking at the room, now. Pristine, as though no one had ever lived there at all. ]

I thought we might have the run of the suite, to do with as you like.