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

[dalishious]

Really, the best thing about all of this is how many things he has to needle Zevran about later. Well... It would be like that, if his teacher didn't seem quite so pitiful tonight. Something seriously bad must have happen for him to just crumble like this.

"Yeah," he replies, moving away from his nook to wade over to the other elf. "I've braided my sister's hair before."

Pel's hair had never been quite this soft, though. Zevran's is like silk spilling through his fingers, and he grimaces a bit as he tries to get a good enough hold on it to start braiding. Honestly.

[ombranera]

"Beleth, Stella, or Ellana?" Those are the three he knew of from the Ashara clan that could possibly be related to him in some way- the Dalish handle families in a peculiar fashion. Even if he understood normal family dynamics it would be equally baffling. Still. He tips his head back to make it easier on Merrick, eyes half closed as he holds himself upright.

[dalishious]

"I don't know who you're calling 'Stella'," Merrick replied as he continues to braid. "If it's Pel, then yeah. She's my sister."

It wasn't right to refer to Ellana or Beleth that way, not when...

A blush spreads over his cheeks, and he bites in his tongue in concentration as he keeps braiding.

[ombranera]

"Mhmm. Mia Stella. Her hair is like starlight and her eyes so terribly sad." He knows now why that is- but it doesn't help to know when there is little that can be done. It is what it is. She will move forward in her own time- and if using him a little is what helps? It is what he shall do.

[dalishious]

"She's not your anything," Merrick says stubbornly. He can construe what the word means in context and through whatever sprinkles of Antivan he's picked up during the course of his life.

But that's it. He knows why Pel is sad too. The evidence is in the bruise he surely left on Gavin's jaw. Pel needs whatever support she is given, no matter what kind.

"Tilt your head a little."

[ombranera]

"True enough. More that I am her...whatever she wishes me to be." He tips his head back, eyes sliding closed. "Which, I think, is some manner of romantic fantasy. A pretend lover. Someone that cannot hurt her and that she can come to whenever she so desires."

It is something he's done before for others- but never any quite so soft and so sad as Pel.

[dalishious]

"So are you always this flowery or is this just a drunk thing?"

After all, Merrick doesn't hear much of that when they're training. He wouldn't catch any of it anyway.

[ombranera]

"You want a teacher, not a poet. Why should I speak so around you? It is nothing you wish to hear or learn." Merrick has his use for Zevran and Zevran, in wishing to keep Merrick out of trouble and blood from the water, has use in turn for being used. It all works out quite nicely.

[dalishious]

"So it is a drunk thing," Merrick says with a shrug. "For me, anyway."

He finishes the braid and holds it in his hand for a moment, admiring his handiwork.

[ombranera]

"People see what they like. I become what they wish. Stella wishes a lover, you a teacher, Ellana a Bacio, Cyril a Sescio, Beleth a guide, and Gavin...I honestly do not know what he wants. He is confounding at best but near as I can tell he wishes a nonjudgmental friend. So that is what I become." For everyone, in every way, as best as he is able without conflicting desires should he be around more than one at once.

[dalishious]

Merrick just squints at Zevran a bit, brows drawing together.

"That's a load of bullshit," he comments. "Changing yourself for other people? Why not just be who you are?"

[ombranera]

"Survival. To be honestly oneself in the Crows was usually a good way to end up dead." He reaches back to run his fingers along the braid, pleased with the work. It'll hold well enough. "Afterward, well. I am always myself. What changes is not so much the foundations but the paint and stucco."

[dalishious]

"And right now?" Merrick adds. "You haven't been a teacher. You've been a drunk, pathetic mess. Why?"

[ombranera]

"Because I am drunk and you would not leave well enough alone." He shrugs and slumps backward against Merrick- too tired to think all that hard about the contact. Wet and naked and he is in no mood. Merrick, likewise, did not seem much either. It is safe enough.

[dalishious]

Merrick lets him. His hands come to rest on Zevran's shoulders, surprisingly gentle.

"You were struggling with a simple lock. It was embarrassing to look at."

[ombranera]

"I had two and a half bottles of brandy on an empty stomach. And some fortified wine." Alistair ever did like to share. "I think I was attempting to use the pattern for the room I was given in Denerim. Or Redcliffe."

That he'd gotten one was strange enough. Needing to break in? Not that strange at all.

[dalishious]

That sounds like a fantastic time to Merrick, but it seems sort of odd for Zevran. Especially considering how he'd turned down Merrick's offer of elfroot in the Mire.

"It's not like you to let your guard down like that."

[ombranera]

"No, it is not." He isn't pleased with his foolishness. Sure, at the moment it had seemed appropriate but now? The morning will be awful and he's likely made a fool of himself in front of plenty of the Inquisition. Marvelous.

[dalishious]

Merrick huffs out a sigh and rubs Zevran's shoulders a bit. As with all his affections, it's rough and sort of clumsy, but stopping just short of being painful.

"I won't tell anyone," he promises, voice soft.

Zevran slightly approves

[ombranera]

Rough but affectionate- it's horribly familiar for a moment but Merrick's touch lacks the size and force of Zevran's least favorite ghost. There is no mistaking his hands for anyone else's, no matter how drunk. Even if it is not the most soothing of touches it helps Zevran relax all the more. "Sentiment."

That is the only explanation he can properly give. Articulating how wrong it is- he hasn't the words.

[dalishious]

It is rough, but Merrick's hands are small and delicate. They can only hurt when curled into a fist or around a dagger.

He sighs. He hates vague shit. "Come again?"

[ombranera]

"I'd have to come first to come again and, alas, neither the spirit nor the flesh is horribly willing." He'd passed the fun 'let us make love' portion of drunk before he'd grabbed the first bottle. It isn't that sort of binge.

[dalishious]

"I meant-- Ugh!"

He shoved at Zevran's shoulders, blushing brilliantly.

[ombranera]

With the shove he crackles a laugh, stumbling forward. There is a moment where it seems as though he will go under but no! He manages (barely) to twist back upright and turn to face Merrick properly. Ah, how he blushes. "You must admit, you handed that one to me on a silver platter."

[dalishious]

Merrick glares at him, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Quit changing the subject."