[Yet Astarion doesn't need to move much to bridge dividing distance: too deeply missing his cherished pair, Vakares has already crossed the room to greet them both with outstretched fingers. He catches Astarion beneath his chin— and Fenris, if he raises himself in time, though there's an extended sweep from ember eyes across dusky features and bare muscular surrounding by slim tatters of cloth. One that borders on searching—

If only just.

And then he's seated on his bed. Grand and plush in the midst of his den-et-study, compliment to lavishly carved bookshelves and gilded desks carved from rich, dark wood. Its bedding and full measure soft— an uncharacteristic trait in anything belonging to their kin. Soft and stern: the nature of his leadership, his clothing, his bearing, his taste. Soft sternness that soon beckons Astarion and Fenris near, patting either side of the mattress he's sunken to in redressed full, waiting for them to nestle in.]

Come here, little gemstones. [Little for comparitive age and nothing more; they are so fierce at heart. Far more bottled with passion and fervor than even Vakares himself, particularly in moments as sedate as these.

Understand: he is so weary, still, and too desiring for their companionship.] I will be glad to rid myself of this ceremony.

[To add, a sobered beat later:]

....and bereft to leave you both.

[So come here to me. Come here.

His most adored of his creations, wreathed within his arms.]

I hope you did not suffer while I was away.

[Ah. But is that a slanted pull just at the corner of his mouth?]