We've come a long way from where we began

[ombranera]

WHO: Zevran Arainai, Alistair, & Open
WHAT: Zevran is not dealing with sentiment well
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall
WHERE: The tavern, the stables, his quarters, the healing tents, the courtyard
NOTES: Drinking, swearing, emotional vomiting.

It took a day or two to thaw out properly from the mire. To sleep, to scrub the muck from his skin, to feel alive again. Of course with the break from the mission and a quiet space to sleep it only served to remind him of how difficult it had been on the road. Of the sounds he had heard of the wardens tents. Of what their troubled sleep meant for one Warden in particular.

[ Tavern - OPEN ]

Zevran attempted to spend his days as he would before the arrival of the Grey Wardens. Some time working on his poisons and traps, some time in the tavern listening to gossip and spinning tales, playing joyful, soothing music for the weary souls within. But for tonight there was no music, there was no smiling. Zevran kept his back to the wall, his hand on a glass of wine or ale, bottle waiting for the next poor on the table beside him, eyes on something small and glinting he rolled between his fingertips. Sentiment. What good had that ever done him? What benefit did it ever hold? It was a weakness. It was an illness. And yet here he sat, sick with it. Normally the approach of company would earn a smile, a flirtatious remark- but for one night? He had no desire for masks.

[ Stables - CLOSED to Alistair ]

"As promised." The words were loose in a way only drink made them. Lulling and swooping rather than the clipped roll of his usual pattern of speech, but Zevran was at least a little drunk and looking to become a good deal more drunk before the night was through. Trouble was he trusted very few people enough to indulge as much as he desired in all of Thedas, fewer still in Skyhold. But here, staring at this ridiculous Warden in the hay with at least one dog? A warm twist of fondness bid him offer a very special bottle of Carnal, 8:69 Blessed. As he had said before, Alistair could not start his whiskey without something particularly exquisite. Between that, the carved rune stones still in his pouch, and a wrapped wheel of small cheese in addition to a bottle of his own brandy for the night? He would forgive being forced to drink in a stable. So long as it was in Alistair's company.

[ Zevran's Quarters - OPEN ]

Well this was mortifying. He had somehow misplaced his key- his spare key, and his spare, spare key in the course of the night- or he had locked all of them inside save for the one he'd slipped into Isabella's boot earlier in the day and now? Now he was crouched, fumbling with his lockpicks in a way he hadn't since his earliest years as a Crow. The lock was simple, he knew it was simple- he also knew himself to be terribly, terribly drunk. Enough so that he was not kneeling before the door in any attempt of stealthy entry and instead sitting before it, working with his picks while swearing a blue streak under his breath in Antivan, Common, with a spattering of Orlesian and even some Tevene. Until he sobered up? He would be at it for awhile. Brasca.

[ Healing tents / Courtyard the following morning - OPEN ]

Another reason why he rarely drank. The migraine. The cotton in the mouth feeling. The twist of wire that strung his guts together. Food was probably not a bad idea bu the smell of- well- anything made it twist sharper, tighter, like a dagger to his very middle. Not productive for eating anything that will settle his stomach. Water helps but it does not do much other than remind him that he should eat, but he cannot eat, and light and sound are an aching mass of unpleasantness he did not wish to linger on. Bundled tight in a cloak that was far softer on the lining than on the exterior, he stumbled his way across the courtyard to the healing tents. Perhaps one of them would give him something if he looked sad enough.

Comments

[laurenande]

His answer startled a laugh out of her. The sound was louder than she'd have preferred, and, perhaps, a bit less kind than he deserved. Her smile was apologetic as she caught herself and, when he did not recoil from her touch, she smoothed her hand against the side of his face.

Many had asked if she was a healer, as if the ability to heal was an exclusive, specific thing, and she had tried to corrected them all. She could not heal, not in the way the others could, but there were few, living, dead, or otherwise, who were more adept at granting peace to pained and troubled minds. She doubted he could feel Nenya against his cheek, but the calm the ring granted was like a river's current, slow and deep. It would draw him into it eventually.

"Do any come by evasiveness and guile honestly?" Galadriel asked gently and, with a casual grace, sat alongside him and drew his cloak-wrapped-head against her shoulder. She sat a moment in silence and idly smoothed her thumb across his cheek.

"I will not ask you to share you secrets with me, Zevran, but there is little value in retaining pieces of the truth in all things." It was advice that she, herself, rarely heeded, but that didn't make it less correct.

[ombranera]

Now that was familiar enough a sound. A noblewoman's laugh, one he'd heard plenty while minding himself for a job with the Crows. For it to come from an elf- well. That was strange, but not so much that he questioned it. She was not of this world. That was reason enough for her to have such a laugh.

He took no offence- after all the joke was what he'd intended. No one was truly so evasive by default- nothing happened without cause. He had learned it in his own way and she, likely, in another. Probably one that involved less beating and bleeding and chance for death, but who knew. Nobles had their own games. Though the idea of a noble elf was something to boggle at- once he was done being soothed by her hands and her embrace. For a moment he feared he'd leave some mark on her, soot or dirt or blood- but there was none to be found.

"As I said- it was habit. An assassin has little use for honesty. Usually it would see us dead. But-" But- what did she know of this world? Of him? Of his strangeness? A shade more of the truth would lose nothing, she could not twist it so harshly against him. Weary and lulled by something he could not quite understand, he spoke. "I drank out of grief for a life not yet ended. He lives but he is quite likely to die soon and that- I had always thought myself to find the wrong end of a dagger before it should come to pass. He would weep at my funeral and ask 'Maker, why not me? take me!' or something equally dramatic. We made a promise and now he is not going to be able to keep it. I find that distressing."

[laurenande]

His profession was worthy of note, and explained much about him, but Galadriel did not linger on it. It was unimportant, in the grand scheme of things, and served no purpose now. No, the source of his disquiet was too familiar to let a curiosity about his skills distract her.

"I know well the weight of another's passing," Galadriel consoled him quietly. "Time is unkind and, on occasion, it can seem impossibly cruel."

But that was not the source of his pain, was it? No, he both celebrated and lamented a life soon lost. She was silent for a long moment as she absently cradled his head. The threat of impending loss was something deeply embedded in her life and, as she thought on it, she came to a terrible realization. For all she had feared the loss that had awaited her, it was no longer quite so impending.

She had been reluctant to brace herself for parting with Middle Earth and now she had been severed from both it and Aman quite utterly. When she continued, her tone held more sorrow than she intended, but it also held an equal measure of sympathy.

"I do not often find myself without some wisdom or comfort to offer, but in this instance there is no answer...not that I know," she said and let out a slow, silent sigh. "There is no balm to lessen the pain of parting, and memory is a poor substitute...but do not waste what time remains in lamentation. Celebrate until the journey's end, for that is all we can truly do."

[ombranera]

"I thought I understood when we last parted ways but, truly, I never thought I would survive this long." Many assassins do not and that is WITH the assistance of a whole guild that may or may not want them to succeed. To have lived this long with the Crows crying for his blood? To have done all he has done and yet live?

He was being saved for something terrible or something awful, but what more? He could not say. At the moment his money was on awful. Thus ran his luck more often than not.

Though right now his luck was quite good, he had a lovely woman that stirred strange emotions in him that he did not examine too closely cradling him to her shoulder- which was not all that far from her bosom. Were he less pained of the head he might take the moment to peek. No. Who was he kidding? He peeked now, thin slit eyes peering over the soft curves of brilliantly white fabric and felt...

Awe for beauty, yes, but no stirring. Strange.

He slipped his eyes closed again. Better not to dwell upon it. "Make what life we have left together a good one. I think I might be able to manage that."