faderift | Did I go at it wrong? Did I go intentionally to destroy me?

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Did I go at it wrong? Did I go intentionally to destroy me?

WHO: Zevran and You
WHAT: Zevran back at Skyhold, Recovering
WHEN: Mid to late guardian, covering a span of time
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: CW/TW FOR: Mentions of torture, withdrawal, suicidal ideation, swearing, self loathing, etc. Shit gets dark. This log is also for characters not on the rescue long. Locked thread below will be done on first come, first serve.

[ His Quarters ]

Good day

Sometimes it's good. He's tired from the trip, tired from the ordeal- but he'll see people. Play cards, answer questions- as many as he can stand. Nothing about the side of his face he has hidden under a bandage, nothing about what was done to him- but he'll describe Antiva. Mention how gallant and ridiculously awesome his rescuers were. Share coffee or brandy or whatever he has on hand- and make light. He tires easily early on in his recovery, but later? He might converse for an hour or so before needing a break. Alistair sees most people in and out as needed.

Bad day

Early on he spends more time alone, quiet and isolated, Alistair a silent, stoic wall between him and the world. Notes will be passed along as well wishes- but he'll only see the most demanding and even then? He'll be listless. Snappish. Frustrated that they forced their way and company upon him when he would rather be left in peace.

[ Stables ]

Good day

A target on the far wall and a dagger in his hands, he's attempting to learn to compensate for the eye- under a leather patch now that neatly hides both the eye and his new scars, and talking a small group of strange new students as they work on...carving toys. Or sketching one another. Or working on a lute- a difference from the lessons he'd been giving before. But they do as they're told and laze about while he works on the throwing, or while he walks them through a particular shading technique, curl of the knife, or chord. Even when they're dismissed he continues with the throwing, aim slowly circling about to something better.

Bad day

When his patience with himself is at it's limit, when he's climbing the walls for want to get away from Alistair's oppressive hovering, when he cannot bear to even teach, he hides in the rafters of the stable. More likely than not there is a bottle of wine or brandy or something stronger still hanging from his fingers, head tipped into the shadows as he drums his fingers against his chest. Until Alistair or Beleth hunt him down, he means to remain there, high above where most people don't think to look.

[ Clearing Outside of Skyhold ]

Later in his recovery, when the worst of it is settled, no matter his temperament he is out running drills with those same students, agility drills, knife drills, a highly acrobatic and complicated looking game of tag or one of the most terrifying rounds of hide and seek possible while he lounges under a tree, calling out corrections or instructions. A bottle of wine, a basket of bread and dried sausages. When his mood is poor and his patience low he runs with them, pushing himself to the point of surly exhaustion. When it is high he sits and drinks and sketches out various shapes of armor, tools- things they may need.

[ Battlements - Locked to Bruce, Sabine, Martel, Mia, and Nahariel ]

On the darkest nights he cannot sleep. Not for all the wine in skyhold, not for all the sleeping spells and draughts available. To close his eyes is to see the fade- to be back on that hook, back in that cell with the blood and whispering. The Shades. He's back with the choice- the knife in his hand and the order in his ear. Wakes to find Alistair, so quiet so trusting. It would take nothing. When the weight of this is too much he walks up, out, finds himself a perch, sitting on the edge of the battlements, peering down at the rocks below. All he has to do is lean. All he needs to do is let go. It would be so very easy to let go, to be done. Maker above, he wants to. Even when he has found it in himself to take a step back, to return to bed; another night might have him back on the battlements once again, considering the drop.

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"Fair enough." He doesn't really enjoy hearing that Zevran was not eating and planning on getting drunk, but if that is what he wanted to do he was not going to stop him. However- "Getting drunk in the rafters probably isn't the best idea though?"

[Here, Bruce hesitates. There are many things he can say in response, so many answers he can give, but none of them will be close to the real truth of why he hides so much. It is easier for people to see a mask than to see the darkness that lies underneath his skin. And besides, he doesn't deserve any of their pity or care. A monster like him doesn't reserve such human things.]

I never said it was simple. [He says instead, voice dipping down, coming out quieter than ever.] But you will have people who will help and support you.

[Zevran has so many people around him, people who would drop everything and go after him at a moment's notice. But Bruce? There would be nobody who would do that for him. And nobody should. He is meant to be alone, forgotten and left behind.]

And you will not?

[ He spreads his arms wide, sleeves billowing about arms that only look all the more thin, all the more fragile for the size of his borrowed shirt. ]

I was a Crow. I killed for fun and profit. Even in this past decade I have killed many that may or may not have deserved it, uprooted whole noble houses in Antiva for their connection to the Crows, ended family lines for old grudges and coin. I can give you every name, every face that I have put to my blade and they are many. How am I any more worthy than you?

"I am comfortable." Well, he's not uncomfortable so he must be some manner of comfortable, or at least lulled enough by brandy to not mind the stiffness of the beam nor the way a joint digs into his shoulders. He could laze and drink and that was all he needed. Why come down? There was nothing for him below but a healer that would meddle, faces full of pity, and Crows he could not unmake.

Picking apart the threads of that particular mess had driven him to the brandy this day- who felt what for whom, whether or not it would end like him and Rinna and Taliesin all over again, whether there was that same 'agreement' that made his life miserable.

No, he could not mind them today. "Go about your business, Simon."

"But it is what I mean to do." No one bothers him here, or so he had hoped. No one would bother him here, and yet there is Sam. Bothering. Being worried at him.

"Sketching. Well. Some are sketching, some are posing- Nico do not give Vita a mustache." He reaches over, casual as anything, and flicks the back of the young man's head. A gentle admonishment that coaxed a round of laughter from the rest- and it almost feels honest.

Vita herself actually sticks her tongue out at Nico- a victory that has Zevran's smile widening.

This is something he hasn't expected- words or yelling, yes. Being dragged away from the edge, left half hanging off in her grip? If he sat here he'd slip out of his shirt-

Actually no.

He does slip out of his shirt (this is what he gets for stealing Alistair's rather than his own) and falls to her feet with a grunt, sans shirt, blinking up at her from the flagstones. Her frustrations, her fury rain down upon him and perhaps he had not thought this through. Or- he had but it circled back around to the fact that at the core- he is a selfish creature. He'd rather be done than worry about everyone else's feelings on the matter. Putting that much thought into anything? It's exhausting. He does not know how anyone can do it, let alone do it, mind themselves, and continue existing. As he told Wynne once forever ago- he simply would not have the time to live and feel guilty.

Or in this case, care and live.

"...If you wished to see me shirtless, Mia, you only needed to ask."

That- diverting things like that- it's safer than addressing anything she's said. If he can fluster her, perhaps she'll forget long enough for him to run.

Oh. Wonderful.

More of the fade. The Beyond was, of course, their way of looking at the fade. There was no proof one way or another of what actually happens; he'd seen spirits, possessed trees, vengeful ghosts, darkspawn, demons, echos of lives, he'd seen life and death in every shade possible here and on the other side of the fade. And he cannot help but wonder if Wynne yet walked there. If the shade of her he saw was not her in truth. If, perhaps, she would have words for him other than 'Don't.' Something overbearing, overpious, and longwinded. Something to put him in his place- for at the moment? He had no idea where his place might be.

But the last-

That Nari had faith. That Nari would hunt for the ruin of him. Carve a staff for him to find his way afterward-

He does not think, he moves. Turns about from where he sat on the stone to put his back to the void- even if it felt like wrenching his leg through the claws of a trap. Forced himself to ignore the great, empty nothing behind that echoed the raw wound within. It was a tentative thing, his hand sliding out to rest against hers on the stone, but it was a gesture made sincerely. "...carve me one for here."

A beat passed, his fingers brushed over hers, curled around her wrist. "The path I need most help keeping- it is here."

"The call of the void," Martel says, apropos of -

Not nothing.

"An Arcian poet's phrase for something we all hear. Walking over a bridge. At a tower window." His slanted glance is brief. "Some louder than others."

There is understanding in the spaces between the words; it is a call out, of a sort, but not the kind that can't be brushed aside. They don't know one another, aren't beholden to one another, but equally aren't beholden to ideas of what they are. They might speak of it.

They might not.

He won't be surprised by either.

"There are safer and decently isolated places to drink, Zevran." Worrying, fussing, stubbornness, and persistence were things he was rather good at. Getting rid of him once he found some ground could either be easy or difficult, depending on how you wanted to go about it.

[He watches Zevran spreading his arms, seeing how thin they are, the fragility they held, made even smaller by the large shirt that he wore now. A Crow he had been, but here, Bruce sees now, is just somebody who wants somebody to show him the way. Somebody to tell him what to do. Just like how he wanted it to be.

Bruce wasn't going to give him that way out.]

You were a Crow, but you're here now, in the Inquisition. [His gaze flicks between Zevran and the expanse of sky and mountains around them, this fortress in the middle of nowhere, a beacon of hope to so many now.] You have Alistair, everyone who went to Antiva to bring you back, the elves here--they will be there for you, Zevran.

[It isn't about who is worthy or who isn't worthy. The simple truth of the matter is that Zevran has people who do care for him and that should be enough. With them, and with time, he can rebuild himself to be better than before.]

The sound of his shifting made her gaze dart swiftly to look, fingers clenching tightly, then relaxing again as she saw that he had turned to face the courtyards rather than slipping to disappear into the air.

A tentative thing, his movement to touch her hand, her wrist. Equally so the unlacing of her fingers, the movement of her other hand to cover his. It was chilly from the air, the stone, but alive. And so was his. Waiting long enough in the quiet, between the two of them, there would be warmth again.

"I will," she said simply, the design already forming in her mind. It would be a challenge, for a certainty. She'd not made the like before. But perhaps he'd be curious enough to wait and see the work finished--to perhaps have fewer nights on the battlements. And that was its own reward.

Merrill does not come empty-handed; like the last time she saw him, before all of this happened, she comes with cookies charmed from the cook and Barkley (who is now a bit larger and less fat, with more fur and more tail). There's also the addition of a book, tucked under her arm so that the cover is facing away from Zevran, though it's impossible to tell if that's on purpose. Either way, Barkley darts ahead of her when Merrill comes through the door, paws coming up on the bed (on Zevran's good side) as he repeatedly tried to jump up.

"Oh, Barkley- Zevran, I'm sorry, do you mind if he comes up there? If not, I can get him to stop. I know some people don't like animals on their things."

Something she's never particularly understood, but then again, she's Dalish.

It is neither a wholly good nor wholly bad day when Merrill finds her way to him- one of those times when he's hovering somewhere between, oddly detached from the reality that is his new skin and new life with but the one working eye and a cache of little crows he needs to mind. He'd checked on them earlier, gave them a list of chores like that is something crows do, and wandered back. But Merrill has ever been one to bring some light-

Honestly it's the lack of irritation at Barkley trying to hop up that makes him stir from where he hadn't been sketching, the page under his fingers empty. "Ah? No. Doghren curls up on the sheets as often as Alistair."

He can't not let Barkley up if he permits them their lounging.

He was not one to give his word lightly, nor do so easily. But to have something, anything to keep him from taking that last fatal inch-

Something to keep him looking forward on his darkest days. That was worth whatever honor his word had left. He leaned into her, head tipped down, shoulder brushing against shoulder. Sealing a little of that serenity- of that warmth, as though he had a right to it.

"...I won't until you are finished, Morena." And by then, perhaps, the depth of this would not be so immediate that he would need to make the slip. "I may still come to stare at the stars but- I will not walk that path just yet."

"If I wanted safety and company I would be in the tavern. I am not." He wants to be here, why is this a question? He grunts, turning to roll over and put his back to Sam. There. Maybe Sam would leave him alone, then.

The pup knows permission when he hears it, or at least knows that what Zevran said doesn't mean 'get that dog off there or so help me', and so there's a pleased little bark as the pup renews his efforts to get up on the bed. It makes Merrill giggle, more relaxed now that Zevran has said he doesn't mind, and step forward to carefully give the dog a boost with the top of her foot.

"Go on, then. Stay out of the cookies." Pause. "I brought cookies."

Which he can probably see, but Merrill is just fussing a bit. She had been so worried, though she doesn't want to tell Zevran as much. She doesn't want to upset him, doesn't want him to have to think about those who were left behind and unable to do anything while he was being tortured. That's not fair to him, and Merrill can worry elsewhere. At least she's usually socially awkward.

With Barkley on the bed, Merrill sits as well, offering the plate of treats.

He laughs, and it gets the slightest smile out of her. Thank the Maker.

"I would sooner we did not have it at all," she replies, entirely candid as she sinks down to sit and obliges his request. "Some things are better left to be mysterious, no?"

It is, perhaps, a poor attempt at a joke and a brush off, but after that argument she feels like drinking some damn wine and avoiding things is far more appealing. Her effort to look for a cup is not especially thorough, because once the wine is uncorked she is taking a swig, and handing it over to her friend.

Depressed, drinking wine from the bottle, and looking worse for wear - the parts of the Fifth Blight that the stories tended to neglect.

How am I more worthy than you?

[ Diversion, evasion- he knows these tricks well. He's used them as long as he's been able to walk. This is nothing new and he will not sit here, six inches from his doom, and listen to Bruce talk around and bullshit him yet again.

Yes, he is more (apparently) yes he has people (undoubtedly) but that he specifically calls upon the elves? ]

I am no hero to their people. I am a warning, a bad end- a sign of what happens when things go wrong. That I have been lucky and survived as long as I have does not make me good or noble or just. It makes me lucky. Forgive me if I weary of that.

"...less a call and more a siren's song." A promise. One step- and nothing. A long fall perhaps but, no more ache in his bones. No more guilty eyes he cannot bear the weight of. No more consideration for lives he has to argue to save. No bitter disappointment that he was rescued that he cannot possibly articulate without seeming terribly ungrateful. Nothing. A void to swallow him whole and leave nothing of him on this side of the Veil.

It is a touch of brutal, broken honesty one can only truly offer a stranger- and how much more strange can one get than a man that is not even of this world?

[He never implied that Zevran was their hero, but it was clear that he was still respected nonetheless, for his contributions to ending the Blight if anything. And Zevran may be weary of the luck that has kept him alive but the things he has--he should be grateful to have them. Its not something that anybody can be so lucky to have.

But Bruce knows he can't say that without it coming off the wrong way, and so he doesn't.]

You came back from something that would have ruined so many others. You faced your greatest fears and returned from it stronger. Isn't that worth something to you?

"Your company is more than enough," Michel offered one hand reaching out to curl around a closed fist, a gesture that was meant to be reassuring. Then he levered himself to his feet, realizing the kneeling was much easier than righting himself again, but he was good at ignoring discomfort and so it didn't show.

"Not everything has to be weighed by gain...if it were then a disgraced Chevalier would have nothing to offer you in return," even on his feet he hadn't released Zevran's closed fist, "I have a stout heart and a good sword arm, I can only hope that these are things that matter. It's true that I know little about you, but you are here, yes? I do not know anyone here who does not wish to make a difference...am I wrong?"

"Mmm," rolling a small bite around on his tongue, Maxwell hummed, imagining it as the chocolate melted sweetly. "That sounds delicious... and like I might finally feel my toes again."

He wagged the tip of his boot, wriggling the toes inside.

"If I find more of this, you'll have to show me."

"Everything is weighed by gain." He was Orlesian, how did he not see-

There are signs of a body in pain Zevran knew and knew well if only to exploit them as needed. Michel's own bared bandages, the tension with which he stood- Zevran moved, shuffling to one side on the bed before curling one hand around Michel's wrist and tugging. "Sit before you fall over."

It is easier than addressing the rest. He cannot weigh that against the hole that's in his chest, the waver in his hand when he holds a blade.

He was Orlesian, yes, he knew the shortcomings of his country...he'd grown up in the alienages and he had a mother once, a mother who gained nothing by having a child who was elf-blooded. So he certainly had experiences that included relationships without gain, even if the memories were old, even if he could barely remember.

His patron as well, who offered him a chance, the scrappy boy on the streets who could offer him nothing, but it didn't matter, he'd seen something in Michel and he had given him a chance without asking for anything in return. Such things existed even in his country, in small, bright corners...too brilliant to be noticed.

The same thing he saw when Zevran pulled him to the bed, insisting he sit down, which he did so without argument, "this...is what I mean."

Whether it was concern or not, such a gesture gained Zevran nothing and Michel had not asked for it.

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Did I go at it wrong? Did I go intentionally to destroy me?

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