faderift | [ CLOSED ] Midnight Rendezvous

"I have stood idly by while someone I was once close to found themselves at the brink, and did nothing. They died, and I did nothing." Whatever it was between he and Michel- it was not what was between him and Rinna. It was too small, too frightening, too fragile from both of them. But it would needle at him like a splinter under the skin gone septic were he to stand by a second time and allow it to happen again. "There is nothing weak in fear. It shows a sense of self preservation."

You fear the bear, so you flee from it. You fear this intangible thing- so you do not engage. Zevran understood that quite well.

"She is dalish and he is a mage. It is a part of their nature to be angry. Whether or not it finds itself misplaced..." He waves a vague hand. "I am neither and have no room to speak there, truly. But you- frightened me, with the chest. The implications. The idea that more might know than I was ready to have know. That it is you? eases my mind somewhat. That it was an accident- a little more. We are both of us complications to one another, aren't we?"

"That was not a dream," Michel took a moment to contemplate the evening that Zevran had been ill, the dreams were strange, but there were other things that he banished from his mind as quickly as they came to him. Zevran was clear when he said that he wanted none of Michel, so this scenario and that scenario, it was not the same, "the two things are not connected, you were close to her."

"And fake emotions appear real, fear, we're scared of everything...scared of what you think of me...afraid of telling you...and testing the waters burned. I had to get away...that is weak," and it had been a struggle for him, for as long as he could remember. He could walk up to the bear and look it dead in the eye, he could stare right at the noose and not even quiver, but there were other things...fears. Things that were a part of him that should be despised.

"Anders is complicated..." Anders irritated him yes, but he toed the line in objectifying Zevran just to take a jab at him. He could spit needles at Michel all day, but was this something you did to a friend? Michel did not have many, but he figured there was a line...not that he would mention it, "I have always had an unusual dichotomy with the Dalish, and plenty of scars to prove it. Though any who wish to kill me must stand in line behind Mihris." Michel laughed softly, but there was no real humor to it, "my intention wasn't to scare you, they were good intentions...I want to think, but all good intentions pave the way to damnation. We live in a world that tells us we are complications to one another, like a snake and a mongoose. I came to that conclusion after my mother died and I realized I wasn't as wanted by those that I thought were my people as she made me feel. That illusion was as good as the one you showed me."

"...No, no it was not." He did not truly wish to elaborate upon it here and now but- ht may bear discussing. "And from that I learned to not be so close. To be wary. From the one that killed her I learned to avoid human men."

Nobles came from contracts and those, well. He always knew better. To be perfectly frank until Alistair he'd never known someone elf-blooded, and even then? He'd thought the man human.

Michel is the first half-blooded anything he had ever taken to bed. It rose questions he did not often consider. "I am...accustomed to being that. An illusion, a pleasing diversion, a fantastic dream. Sentiment grounded in real feelings- those are more rare, more frightening. Every time a man of a certain station has said he loved me, he meant he loved my flesh, loved to possess me. We are not- I do not know what we are, but we are not nothing. I sad that in anger. To hurt you, in my fear."

"I try to see myself as I might be seen in Orlais...it's easier when you are Orlesian I think. A new race, a new gender. My blood is dirty in Orlais so I am lawfully not afforded the priviledges I had on a technicality...this blood is equally dirty in the alienage for all that it represents, a breeding out of the elven. I am not sure why my mother kept me...she might have lived a longer life if she hadn't overlooked my numerous errors. And neutralizing the position of Champion, normally reserved for a woman...it was Gaspard who referred to me as Aveline...I can only imagine how perplexing it was," Michel inclined his, still hooded gaze a bit, staring at a fixed point elsewhere, perplexing for other men to see him in such a role. Part of him wanted to defy as much as he wanted to deny the things that he was or the boundaries of what he could be.

"Dreams are fleeting, you were not fleeting...I suppose it is the same as the unstrung feelings you have that mine could be real," that Michel had found himself in Zevran's arms as often as he had was probably that same, panic enducing situation. Letting anyone closer to him than a passing one night stand was outside of his realm of expertise, "the things I loved were different...difficult to explain...not being able to explain it is the point I suppose."

"...Orlesians do love to complicate things that even ought to be simple. You are...something new. Someone new. And you have done everything you can to meet impossible expectations." While hiding everything of himself. How could a man live like that for so long without snapping? Without losing what it was that makes him himself? Mask upon mask- even Zevran had a few places where he might honestly be himself.

It occurred, then, that perhaps that place for Michel had been him- and he felt a twinge of regret.

"Perhaps- I know you've no desire to remain. I know you gave your word you wouldn't and you broke it at my demand." What that meant- he did not wish to look at to closely, but he id all the same, for it was uncomfortable. The power Michel gave him over his person, over his honor. It was not somewhere he wished to be so easily. And yet it was given. "But...I would not spit on what we had. It was not, all of it, a dream. Perhaps..."

And here he might be mad, here he might be overstepping whatever truce they've made- but he wished to reach out- but did not. For touching and losing oneself in touch was how they came to this place. "Perhaps we might start over? Honestly. Equally. Me without my masks, you without your fears. For I have given you much to fear, haven't I?"

"It's a cunning Game they play in Orlais..." Michel was never fond of it, but it often complicated matters, you did not play, you died or you lost everything. Or both. For Michel, life after the death of his mother was walking on a tightrope, you couldn't drop your guard, you could not relax. If you did there were consequences. Up to this point Michel had been surviving and the truth of it was, he couldn't claim to be in his right mind, not all the time. On most days he appeared to be the fine plateware, taken out for only special occasions, but more often he felt like an old mug.

And then there was Zevran, for whatever reason Michel had lost his footing on the rope. Perhaps it was because the man didn't seem to care what he was and it was refreshing up to the point where the truth was that what you were was the only thing that mattered. It was bitter to swallow that.

"Going back on my word feels dirty...but you demanded to see me..." and there was that strong temptation to act on the Chevalier's code at times, but keeping his word had also meant betrayal in his experiences. How did one live up to such an impossible standard as honor and what would be honorable? Michel wasn't quite so certain anymore, "please...I...I've been letting the scales fall from my eyes..."

And he wasn't certain he could handle being told that even a moment of it might have been real. The idea of it hurt, somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

After a moment of contemplating he drew back his hood, honest conversation was difficult when one kept their face hooded, but he certainly didn't resemble the man that had left here. Bearded, wind chafed skin, burnt from his time in the Western Approach, "what I feel...what I felt," he amended, "was the only thing I feared...I can start over with you, if you wish, but I cannot start over with this place."

He looked around Skyhold.

"You can understand the difficulty in that...if I speak to you others will want to know why, what my angle is, what agenda I have, will I hurt you..."

"Cruel, more like. I would very much like to say 'ah, in Antiva we are more honest about our backstabbing and assassinations-' but that is only true in so much that there are no literal masks involved." Zevran himself had never been a player- but an instrument? That was a role he'd filled many a time. A swift and certain end to those unable to buy their way out of the noose. Perhaps it was that mentality as much as everything else that set him off balance with Michel-

But no. He could think back to the one moment that made his vision of the man before him shift and leave sense behind. A loaf of bread, kindly given. Without expectation or reservation- simply offered because Michel wished to do so. So simple, so plain a thing that weighed all the more knowing what he now knew of the man. The knight. The lie. The jagged edges hidden beneath that serene veneer.

No masks, he'd said, and thus he grimaces at the request. Not all a dream, but a truth unwanted. He can be that, if Michel needed it of him, and he set those thoughts aside. As confounding as Michel had been to him, as wary as his experiences made him- the injured party was plain.

He had no right to mourn the past tense of 'felt', as certain as he had been that Michel could not possibly feel what he'd claimed. He'd offered shreds of himself, layers under the masks, but not enough to warrant that devotion. Whether or not starting again finds them where they were before, he could not say. He could say this was terribly unwise and that likely one of them would be bleeding at the end- but at least it was his turn. Michel had been cut enough.

"When the truth of the matter is that I have only ever been the one to hurt you-" He'd laugh, but it was not funny. Zevran's lips twisted, wry and bitter. "That is fair. I will not be able to travel for some time- my son is too young to travel comfortably and I would rather not leave him for long stretches of time as of yet aside from the earlier offer of murder. That was...less of an offer and more of a statement of intent. But...we could speak over the stones, yes? And meet, in time, outside of the hold. Less scrutiny and bothering for you-"

Ah, well. "That is..."

He swallowed, combing his hair out of his face, peering up into Michel's weathered and weary eyes. "That is...if you wish it. I forced your hand in coming here. I'll not do so again if I can help it."

Cruel was a good description of Thedas and he suspected that there wasn't a country that he knew of that wasn't. If there was, he might just want to see it for himself, as it stood Michel had played the game. Everyone who played was played in return, he never enjoyed it, not a moment.

But he was not a man to look into the past and ponder over it all that much, one couldn't do anything for it, they could only strive to do better. That's why he stived to crush these feelings, he thought he could, he thought he could keep it all platonic and that would enable him to stay next to Zevran's side.

Then their came the noise inside of his head, all of those unspoken things wanting to rip their way out of him. It wasn't like the secret he'd been trying to keep, this had a hold on the Chevalier that Michel had no idea how to contain and so it slid through his hands, as did everything else. He could only try to improve on it and do better, at first that meant leaving, but he was called back. Now he had that look on his face.

I was nearly the look he had that time before the loft, but now they were both a little wiser for it.

"We both delivered wounds to one another..." and much as he would have liked to, much as he might have spoken in the past tense, his feelings were still very real and present. It was something you could curb, for whatever they were trying to do, but shutting these things off? How does that happen? And because he could hardly endure that look Michel couldn't stop himself from reaching out and touching the other man, his fingers carefully brushing his hair back, weeping it over the tips of his ears and out of his face, "...there's nothing you can do that would make me feel resentful or treat you unfeelingly..."

And the idea of talking to him, but not seeing Zevran was, also, not an easy thing for Michel, even as it was suggested.

"I want whatever makes you comfortable...I can endure anything else," true, it would be unpleasant, but discomfort never stopped him before.

"And I would rather not take advantage of such kindness." Is it kindness? To him, perhaps, it is. To anyone else it would be an expectation. A right of association but Zevran has never been quite so gifted with the world's regard to expect such a thing. A boot to the ribs is just as likely as an apology- if not more so. This is all...terribly outside his depth.

In far over his head and there are things- reflexes to make himself smaller, to turn and press a kiss to Michel's palm- but those are masks. He stands here bare of them, weary and confused but wanting to offer some contact. Some sign he means this.

He reached up to curl his fingers in Michel's and tug his hand down. Not to shake, not to remove. Simply to hold. "You've as much a right to the hold as I- and truly? I will not be here much longer. As soon as the Guild House is finished in the Valley I will be moving there instead."

That had been the plan before Lucci but now? Now it is still the plan, but adjustments must be made to keep the child safe. "I suspect it will only be a month or two longer in the making before it is complete. Whatever you or your honor deems appropriate? That is what we shall do. I am, as you well know, quite flexible."

"You haven't taken advantage of me," at least Michael thinks so, he couldn't remember giving anything he did not want to give and perhaps more than he should have. Not that he wanted to think about it too hard, not that he wanted to think about much aside from the fingers threading through his own and the dull ache that left him with the urge to sweep Zevran's weary body up and put him to bed. That had not escaped his notice.

"Guild House?" Michel was curious, coming out of his own spell as soon as Zevran confessed he wouldn't be remaining within the walls of Skyhold. Whether he had a right to the hold or not wasn't exactly on his mind, he'd made a promise, and it was certainly as welcome here as it was in the courts of Val Royeaux, "you've been busy...is this a specific guild that you are creating?"

"No, I suppose not." Though Michel would not make it all that difficult for him to do so. Case in point, the gold. Still he was trying to set all of that aside in favor of starting anew. Trying this again without the games, without the seduction. Something plain.

Sincere.

It...felt wrong a little, to not give something more. Not to take. But this was all he had the energy for, holding Michel's hand. Even as he listed close as though to press his forehead against Michel's shoulder- no. They must both of them avoid the mistakes that led them here. "A new House of Assassins. The Kestrels of House Arainai."

The Crows House Arainai is no more. The masters and grandmasters dead at his hands, the crows either gone to other houses or fled.

He was aware, on some level, that the physical intimacy they once had would never be a possibility so he settled with what Zevran was willing to give him. Michel had gone without touch for years at a time, it was fine for the Chevalier if it was simply this.

A vague smile formed on the Chevalier's lips as he spoke of his grand creation to Michel, well he might not be able to return to Skyhold, but if Zevran ever wanted to see him, he could visit the guild. This hew House of Assassins, "ah...well if you are ever in need of any help, my sword arm is far from rusting."

The temptation to invite him in would be overwhelming were it not for his exhaustion and Luciano. Then again he never would have called the man back without the child, never would have reconciled with him- perhaps it was for the best. In the future they might...try. On more even ground. When they were certain of one another.

When Zevran could be kind and treat Michel's heart gently. Now, however, was not that time.

"I have seen you fight, it is nothing to sneeze at." It was something to marvel at, honestly. "We would be glad to have you."

Michel did not have the ability to see that far ahead and the experience had taught him an invaluable lesson about such matters. What they could have done and wanted to do was somewhere else now and he saw little point in looking back for it. If he could make amends, however, that was something.

"Yes, I did want to train with you...beyond the trap making, of course, but the opportunity never presented itself," not in such a bustling place as the Inquisition, "I'm no assassin of course, but I am a glorified body guard, so perhaps that could be of some value."

One that doesn't rest often either could be made use of.

"You have more than a few techniques that would be invaluable- as we are trying to do things a little differently in the Kestrels. Being able to work with and around others that are not assassins is but one thing I hope to teach them." Working as team to a soul purpose- to remove the competition and power games from within- that would change so much.

"...If I did not have a sleeping child and an overly needy dog taking up half the bed, I would invite you in to rest. You look as though you need it, Michel. Are you not taking care of yourself in the Desert?"

"I...suppose that's true," he made it all the way to the side of the Empress, but he was generally low key about his skills. He could fight using three different methods, he wasn't limited to one hand, even though his right often dominated. There were things that were of value that he knew, that he'd been taught.

"I do not require much rest, so you needn't bother with me on that," though he did think about the desert, the Western Approach, "the Approach is a learning experience...it's not my frozen Emprise, but I've been there a few time. I'm surviving, that is taking care of ones self, yes?"

Finding shade, drinking water, the usual outdoor survival routine? Yes, he's taking care of himself. Not pampering himself, but it's easy enough to fall back into the old quick scrubbing habits.

"I do not need much rest, he says, looking half dead on his feet." Zevran said, looking three quarters dead on his own. Needy infants, they do not make for restful slumber. "You are being very human and stoic about this, you know- it is not terribly attractive."

Is it too soon to tease about such things? There's no lilt, no leer- he hasn't the energy for it. But a lopsided smile, a cant to his head that is all him under everything else. That is honest. "The beard, now. That could grow in quite well. Make you very distinguished."

As though he needs such things. "Be careful though, yes? I have heard there are darkspawn about. They are not so easily slain."

"Ah, but I am nothing compared to you. When was the last time you got a full night's rest?" Michel could actually remember infants, they could suck the life energy right out of you, especially if you were but a child yourself. A great deal of work they lay on your shoulders, "I'm not sure if there is another way to be. Instinct would have you carted off and tucked into bed already."

Michel finds the laughter in his voice somewhere, but it is brief and very much as though he'd spent his time swallowing the sand in the Approach. "Ah...well...the sandstorms can be very bracing...a beard helps protect the mouth from unwanted debris somewhat...that was the idea anyway."

More for function less for distinction, at least that was the plan, and thinking about it causes him to rub his face a bit conscious of it now. More than he had been, "I've had training in Grey Warden tactics, though I suppose avoiding the ichor is the best plan of action. Taint is the last thing I need."

"The day before I was given care of my son." Quite a while, then. Not that he was about to elaborate thusly. "I- ah. That is terribly sweet."

He shouldn't be blushing. He shouldn't be rubbing the back of his neck and coughing like Alistair and yet, here he was. Doing just that. This would be embarrassing if he could not laugh it off. "The Ichor and the Emissaries, yes. If you see one of them, and you shall know them for their feathered headdresses, kill them first. They cause far more trouble if left unattended."

"See, you are, by far, more exhausted than I," Michel didn't need to have the diagram drawn, he could guess the approximate time, "you can see the alternative to not being stoic and human...but I can sympathize."

It takes a great deal more effort not to respond to Zevran's sheepish reactions, but he does give his hand a squeeze. It was a first, actually, Michel had never really seen Zevran quite like this and trying not to think about that took a lot of will power, "spell casters of the Darkspawn...said to be somewhat more intelligent. Do they usually reveal themselves outside of a Blight? Regardless...I'll keep that in mind, you never know."

"I do not know- I would have joined the Inquisition there but-" He tipped his head back to the door and the sleeping babe beyond. Sudden changes in priorities. Changes he had not yet informed many people of just yet.

"They also like to swarm once the scout is felled. The Alphas you will know for how large they are, they tend to use warhammers or battle axes." Anything more, well, he had likely heard from the Grey Wardens.

"Does he favor you- ah...no, you don't have to answer that," it was momentary curiosity on Michel's part, "it's easy to see how you were side tracked."

"I...haven't really had the opportunity to come across them in the desert yet, but that should prove useful. A giant on the other hand...apparently I'm not the only one who enjoys a good oasis."

"Ah-" But Michel took it back and spared Zevran having to sort out how to best answer. It wasn't something he'd thought much about. The child was a child? And his. "Giants are actually quite fun if you have a ledge, some rope, and a grappling hook."

Michel knew he didn't look much like his mother, because his father had been human, but he did have her sunny hair and wintery eyes. Perhaps that's why she chose to keep him? Michel didn't know, keeping him had not benefitted her in any way...but that was his own pain.

For the time being he raised an eyebrow at Zevran, "you have fun with the giants? Like wrangling chickens fun?"

"Like swinging from chandeliers fun. You hook them about one of their tusks and leap from the ledge, making certain to swing around them rather than at them- on your way down? You entangle them in the rope! It is marvelous fun and looks quite impressive if I do say so myself." And he's done it many a time.

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