"Oh," Astarion puffs, almost a pfft sound, no doubt waving a hand in dismissal somewhere behind her head. "He was already out on his ass. That was the part where I came in."

Like wine or painkillers, he supposes. Temporary relief, and not to be repeated, if what Thranduil said was true— and Astarion has no reason to doubt it. A pity unto itself.

But not an unfamiliar one.

"And look, I enjoy a little entertainment as much as anyone, but seeing as how they were— as she herself put it— estranged, and how she'd already offered to spend the night with me once before provided I had a place for it that wasn't just a Gallows bunk— which, at the time, I didn't— I assumed we were all essentially simpatico."

Still, the throaty sigh that lives between that confession and the next is a segue into mellower sobriety. A little less conversation, a little more weight.

"As for the rest, I suppose there's no denying it. If I was smarter, I would've just lied: told her we were the closest of companions, that she had my every confidence, that I'd never dream of turning tail in alarm." He purses his lips, sucks at the edge of one overlong incisor in thought.

"But I wasn't smart. So."