[ CLOSED ] THE ANTIVAN CROWS SEND THEIR REGARDS

[ombranera]

WHO: Alistair, Araceli Bonaventura, Beleth Ashara, Anders Detlef, Korrin Ataash, Taashath, The Iron Bull, Twisted Fate, an Zevran Arainai. Guest Starring: Samouel, Cyril, and Merrick, Super Special Guest Star: Leliana.
WHAT: The Crows come for the Ombra Nera.
WHEN: Begins Guardian 6
WHERE: Skyhold/Antivan Border/The Road
NOTES: CW/TW FOR: Flesh hommonculi, violent/gruesome content, torture, blood magic, non-consensual drug use, adult content, adult language, reader discretion is advised. Sign up post, original plotting post, hit me on PM or @ thesouthernbelle if you have questions.

It's a normal morning in Thedas until, abruptly, it isn't. The Crows come calling; they are swift, they are certain, they are silent and leave behind but one witness that won't be alive for much longer (or so they assume). Prize in hand they ride North for Antiva.

Subthreads for portions of the plot are yours to tag around in as you like!

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[byblow]

"Not an even trade," Alistair says, without any fire, tucking his chin down so he can nudge the top of Zevran's head with his nose. "Are you warm enough?"

[ombranera]

"What would be?" Actually, no, he doesn't want to know, but it's too late to not think about it.

"No." But no amount of blankets will solve that problem. The room had been freezing, the fade more so, and he carries it in his bones. "There is nothing to be done for it."

[byblow]

Alistair doesn't want to think about it either--not for his own sake, but because explaining the mismatch between his hypothetical future death and painless endurance of an annoying song and what happened to Zevran will require revisiting the room with the hook and the blood and he's been doing a remarkable job of keeping his voice steady, so far, so no. He shakes his head, nose rubbing into Zevran's hair in the process.

"All right," he says, to nothing to be done, but his hold tightens anyway, in case it will help. He manages to be quiet for fifteen seconds, maybe. "Does it still hurt? Your eye."

[ombranera]

"..." Zevran sighs, trying to think of a way to lie and unable to put anything together that will satisfy either of them. If he answers, Alistair feels guilty. If he doesn't, Alistair assumes, and feels guilty. Damned if he does, damned if he does not and it aches in the back of his skull as a throbbing counterpoint to the eye. "Why are you asking after things you cannot fix?"

Because that's what this is. Alistair searching fruitlessly for something he can fix, something he can put right. Charming as it is when he turns it on others; it does neither of them any good in this mess. He lives. Anything more is stretching it. He lives.

[byblow]

He doesn't have an answer for that right now. He might later, when he's had time to think about it or isn't so tired and overwhelmed; then he might be able to say that if he can't fix it he at least wants to try to help carry it. That's what he's good for. Big shoulders, you know.

Right now, though, Zevran's nine-word question translates in Alistair's head to one word, yes, and he lifts his chin away from Zevran's head. "Let me see."

[ombranera]

"No." It's immediate, cut out of him in a sharp snap of all the frustrations he's had roiling in the back of his mind since he was cut down. Zevran presses his face tighter against Alistair's shoulder- he'd move away if he could manage to do so without revealing the source of so much of his disquiet, but he couldn't, the blankets were about his shoulders, Alistair is determined, and he does not wish to think about this.

[byblow]

"All right," Alistair says again, surprised, acquiescent in tone. But after a moment to do some hasty and simple puzzle-solving, he adds, "You can show me in the morning," ninety-five percent innocence--because clearly it's only being cold and not wanting to move that's the issue here, and clearly Zevran isn't planning on making his way all the way back to Skyhold with his face hidden against various shoulders and chests, and clearly daylight will be better for having a good look, anyway--and five percent pointed.

[ombranera]

"I said no." He hisses, rolling away. Hand pressed to his face while he reaches for his pack, Alistair's pack- a pack. He can't attempt to sleep now, not knowing Alistair will likely attempt to peek when he does not wish it to be seen. He's half blind and half mad- but he can still make his own choices. And not showing anyone that does not need to see it the ruin of his eye, the blurred over mass of it? Is his choice to make. Alistair ought to abide. Swearing under his breath he picks through until he finds a bandage and wraps it around his head, a wad of cotton against his new scars to keep them from being seen.

[byblow]

"Zevran."

Alistair's tone tries for a mix of apology and question and rebuke and falls short of all three. He sits up, propped back on his arms and frowning, to watch what little he can see in the dark, with Zevran's back to him.

Fine. All right. That's happening. And he's still too relieved to have Zevran back at all to be overly hurt by the sense that he's being shut out.

"Okay," he says. "Will you look at me now, at least?"

[ombranera]

"Alistair." Dry, wry, and distant; in a way his name hasn't been for over ten years. Since those first days when he was trying to sort out who would and wouldn't kill him if displeased. A harrowing time that he's been past for years but this? He does not know how to cope with this and Alistair's need to fix things.

"Will you let the matter lie? I am cold, I am in pain, I am broken and there is nothing you can kill that will make this right again."

[byblow]

Alistair doesn't believe him. Maybe there isn't anything he can kill, precisely, but he's sure there are things he can do, and he's sure Zevran isn't broken. Not in any way that can't be mended with enough effort and support.

But he doesn't say so. He doesn't want to fight. If Zevran's already saying his name that way—like a sharp elbow in the ribs, but Alistair shakes it off, it doesn't matter, he doesn't mean it—he won't be able to last a real argument. That isn't the same as agreeing, though, or giving up; he'll keep trying without announcing it beforehand, that's all.

For now he only puts a hand on Zevran's back and sighs, frustrated but ultimately agreeable.

"Thank you," he says, "for protecting me." Battered and drugged and still. If the list of other things already breaking his heart weren't so long, that would do it. "Come on, I'll hush. You should try to sleep."

[ombranera]

He does not have to look back to know Alistair is making one of his many, many faces. Probably one part kicked puppy and two parts hopeful, with a dash of guilt in the mix. It's all in the eyebrows, truly, and Zevran cannot bear to look at it. He did this to himself. He cannot bear the consequences and Alistair's guilt.

Of course it might be easier to bear than his gratitude.

Habit, honestly, had him move. He had endured too much for too long (in his mind) to allow some fool Crow with more daggers than good sense to cut Alistair's throat. An instinct he's never shaken himself of, after that year of doing the same, putting himself between the blade and Jonas, the blade and Alistair. It's the only reason he managed and for a brief, visceral moment, he loathes himself for it. Hates himself more for thinking it'd be an even trade, his eye, Alistair's life.

Tense under Alistair's hand but. He turns, bandage covering his scars and eye. "...You never did learn to watch your flank."

An olive branch of a sort. Something to make this less tense, so he could sleep.

[byblow]

"I did so," he protests; he'd improved, after enough chastising. He'd made Zevran help him. He's smiling now, and it's a sad, guilty, tentative smile, but not intentionally so. He's trying very hard. He even meets Zevran's good eye without attempting to sneak a glimpse of any signs of the wound around the edges of the bandage. "But I haven't fought much except darkspawn in a long time," he says. They can't sneak up on him. "I guess I got lazy."

And he's sorry. Miserably, viscerally sorry.

He still knows better than to say so.

"I'll work on it," he says instead, lying back again. His hand slips off Zevran's back but he keeps his arm held out in invitation.

[ombranera]

"You have been slacking." Zevran murmurs and it's as close to a playful grumble as he can manage. His usual protestations. His usual complaints. But with that smile and those eyes he knows more than anything that shaking apart here and now? Cracking in front of Alistair? Is not something he can do.

It'll become Alistair's fault, somewhere, he'll fell guilty, he'll take it personally and Zevran knows himself well enough to see that he would make it personal.

Cut to bleed, aim to wound.

It'd make the rest of the ride unbearable. He swallows it down and shifts, moving to resume his earlier posture of curled in as small a ball as possible against Alistair side. "You had better. I will not always be there to divert the blow."

Too soon?

[byblow]

Too soon.

But Alistair only sucks in a breath and holds it, long enough for don't say that to die in his throat. He issues other orders instead: "No more talking. Go to sleep." He doesn't sound very commanding, now or ever, but he feels bad about the bossiness, anyway, and while he adjusts his arm around Zevran and closes his eyes, he adds, "I love you," in the same cursory, parting tone.

[ombranera]

Too soon. He does not wish to wonder on how it was Alistair endured, how it knots at him so. Terrible things happen and- you laugh them off. Make them less. Giving weight and worth to them in full would break Zevran in a way the Crows never could. But he can rest, can uncurl enough to tuck an arm around Alistair's waist to cling back. Voice soft that it might be a strain to hear, for as much as Alistair knows it to be true this is a secret that may kill him, he murmurs. "...ti amo, amico."