[There is conviction in that voice. Loki believes it. Or...at least he thinks he believes it. There is the possibility that a creature of deception might lie even to itself to nurse along its wounds.]

You might think yourself elysian, my dear, but when it comes to pain, oh— there is so much I know intimately that you couldn’t possibly begin to grasp.

[Astarion's smile widens, made wicked. His voice is low. He leans in like a serpent, hissing with all the malice that hungers in his cold, dead heart. How far can he push his companion? Does it sting? Does it gnaw? Is it nothing at all of consequence?] Sleep soundly at night. Tell yourself whatever you like. Revel in the luxury of it, if it sets your heart alight.

But when they fall— and they will, they’re mortal, after all— it’ll wound you deeper than any dagger ever could.

[And then, as quick as doused embers, Astarion's demeanor recedes into something more cheerful. More sweet. Amicable and jovial as the most sincere-hearted child:] That, of course, is your choice though, isn’t it?

Maybe it’ll be thrilling. Entertaining, even. I certainly can’t speak for you or...what gets your horses running, so to speak.

Myself, I wouldn’t dream of getting so attached.