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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

You had the luxury of trust. I never did. There is no trust among assassins. We are liars and murderers and something so foolish as trust sees you dead in short order.

[ No trust, but agreements. Handing himself over into Taliesin's care for the sake of survival, doing the same with Rinna out of sentiment. Believing Taliesin as he'd known him longer and had to choose-

that might have been trust. That might have been some understanding in the system of where he stood. That he did not was no one's fault but his own. He should have known better what he was. It is not a mistake he'll make twice. ]

Self defense. Kill them or be killed. Afterward it was spite. It remains spite. I bear the name of what was one of their most illustrious houses. Me. A bastard son of a whore. [ He cracks a laugh and it feels like being gutted, the sound wrong and dragged out of him by the cold snap of wind. ] A one eyed bastard son of a whore that cannot even hold a knife straight- that is what they fear.

They fear you because you did what they believed to be impossible.

[Breaking away from the system, away from the carefully constructed life they had made for him. He broke away and became his own person and if he could do it, then why couldn't the rest? Sometimes all it takes is for one person for things to change - Kirkwall had proved that much.]

Even when they dragged you back there you didn't break. You remained who you choose to be than be what they wanted you to be. Maybe it is spite on your own end or self defense to stand your ground, but the fact of the matter is that you did - and that you succeeded.

[And it doesn't matter that he's lost an eye or that he can't hold his knife straight. What Zevran did would change everything within the Crows and their careful structure and that is the real victory for him.]

If I pull myself back will you stop saying things?

[ He does not want to hear this. He can't hear it- the howling of the wind should make it difficult but every word sinks in and burrows in, scratching him like glass needles leaving a little blood and long screaming paths of ragged nerves too confused to do anything but hurt.

No matter the answer, he does pull himself back. An inch. Not much but- less likely to tip over.

By a little.

It's a concession he's willing to make for silence. ]

[Bruce blinks once when he sees Zevran pulling back - not a lot, but enough to be noticeable. Enough to show his intent. It wasn't what Bruce had planned, if he actually did plan anything, but its good enough.]

I apologize. [He says after a moment's pause, gaze flicking back up to Zevran.] It wasn't my intention to cause you more distress.

[But he thinks Zevran needed to hear that, at least. The two of them haven't been on any good terms for a while but Bruce thinks he needed to say it out loud. If it damns the last bits of whatever camaraderie they had, then Bruce will live with it. Losing favor with an assassin isn't the worst he's had to work with.]

You never intend anything.

[ There lies the root of his distrust and disquiet around the surgeon. There is no desire, there is no intent- there isn't even something so simple as a want.

What manner of man wants nothing?

Tranquil, perhaps, but he lacks the brand and he has seen him laugh and smile. Such things are beyond the Tranquil. ]

[He hadn't expected to hear that and the surprise shows on his face, briefly. Of course, there are things that Bruce does want - so many things, but he also knows that wanting any of them is impossible and so he squashes all of them away and lets it sit at the back of his head, untouched and unspoken. It's not healthy, of course, but its not as if Bruce can actually get any kind of help for it.

And really, right now, anything about himself is low on the list. Right now its Zevran who needs the attention.]

My only intent now is your recovery. [He says it plaintively once more, no sugarcoating or anything else that he would usually do. He figures Zevran wouldn't appreciate it anyway.]

And what satisfaction do you derive from that, mm? What are you getting out of this?

[ Nothing, as near as he can tell. There is no research to be furthered by his symptoms nor his cure, nothing more to be done for him that has not been tried.

It is not pride, for Bruce is never something so human as to be proud, it is not affection for they have none of it for one another- it is not even professional obligation; Anders is his healer for as long as he's needed him, he does not need a surgeon nor a mage any longer. ]

I came to the Inquisition to treat the injured and the sick. That hasn't changed.

[To Bruce, this is all professional obligation. Certainly Detlef might be the one who does most of the work but Bruce simply does whatever he can to help. Even though there is nothing between them it wouldn't feel right to not do anything.]

I am neither injured nor sick. Peddle your wares elsewhere.

[ Nothing more to be done. His eye is his eye, his scars his scars, the ache in his bones more a creation of his mind than actual injury.

There is no work here for a healer. ]

If you weren't then we wouldn't be having this conversation right now.

[Bruce says that rather pointedly, and of course totally without batting an eyelash.]

I am admiring the view.

[ Lies, but he's tired. Not so much as to tip over, not tonight- this isn't the last conversation he wants to have had before falling. ]

And you are an ass.

[ It needs saying. If no one else in Skyhold will say it, Zevran will. ]

Edited 2016-02-09 12:20 (UTC)

[There are several things that Bruce could say to that - and to his retorts - but he doesn't voice them out. Zevran is probably frustrated as it is and--perhaps that is much better than anything else he might be inclined to feel. He could be wrong, of course, but it is a start.]

I will leave you to it, then. [He says, then pauses only for a moment before adding on.] I'll come by your room later to check on your healing.

[Because he expects Zevran to be there and yes, he is an ass in this. He didn't come here to do his job just for people to throw away their lives needlessly in the end.]

Tell me something- are you secretly half tranquil? Some manner of spy or assassin yourself- because-

[ And here he turns, twisting on the stone to peer after Bruce, eye narrowed and hands tight on the battlement. ]

I cannot read you. Near as I can tell you want nothing, you mean nothing. You are empty of intent and desire and that? Is impossible.

[Bruce wonders if its a compliment, to be told something like this by what is literally a master assassin. Somebody trained to read people admitting that he cannot read Bruce.

Maybe its a compliment. Or maybe it's enough of an indication to Bruce to just how he truly is inside. Broken and empty, a shell of a man that others see him as. Maybe one day he can find an answer to that - or perhaps not.

And maybe it doesn't matter.]

I'm none of those. [He says, and he tries for wryness but instead there's only tiredness. A tiredness and exhaustion that shows on his face for only half a second before it vanishes back to his placid neutrality.] I told you, I know what it's like to be unmade.

[He just never quite came back from it.]

And if all I have to look forward to is this great blank nothing that you are I may as well tip over and be done with it.

[ Is that what it is like to be Tranquil? To be so hollow that it seeps out of your skin and settles on your face and leaves you without feeling, without sentiment, without purpose? He had a drive, once. He had a purpose. With but one working eye and hands he cannot keep steady, a mind that cannot tell if this is or isn't the fade and one of their tricks again-

How is he to be what he was? ]

There's only nothing for you if you wish for it to be that way.

[For Bruce there hadn't been a choice for him. When everything he knew, he believed and he hoped was all torn away from him; when he even lacked anything left of himself--

Well.

He's lost his right to be 'human' a long time ago, but yet here he is - a 'human' to everyone, just because he looks like the part. The only blessing he'll ever have, he supposes.]

For all that you are, and all that you've done--you stopped the Blight. You saved Ferelden. And now you're doing it again with the Inquisition.

[Few can come to that claim. And Bruce is certain that Zevran did it all of his own volition.]

You are more than you think you are, Zevran. You have long made yourself more than what the Crows did to you.

[And in that sense, Zevran had been fortunate. Bruce had not been so lucky.]

And what have you made yourself into, in your infinite wisdom? What do you use to shape yourself after such a betrayal? How do you build again when you have nothing left?

[ A steady hand and a pretty face. It's all he's needed. It's all he's ever needed to be, a good knife, a strong assassin, a clever little elf.

Such a pretty child.

It'd made him worth more, his face, his hands. To have that yanked away and his mind made a plaything- to be unable to be what he's meant to be?

What does one do next? How does one recover? ]

You have Alistair.

[He says it simply, quietly--softly. And maybe this time there's a soft tinge of gentleness that Bruce hadn't let slip until this moment. Zevran has suffered, that much is true, and he has gone through much. But he has Alistair, and the other elves, and so many people in the Inquisition. The fact that so many went out to get him back showed as much. If they didn't care, they wouldn't have gone through all that effort just to bring him back.]

You have people who care about you, Zevran. [Something Bruce never had, and now will never have.] You haven't lost anything, Zevran. You gained everything by leaving the Crows.

[He gained people who would stand for him, care for him and fight for him. So many people who came to see Zevran in all the days that Bruce was around, glimpses of others who would come to talk with Zevran and check on him on both good days and back. Zevran has so much now, truly, more than perhaps the elf can realize.]

I told him not to chase me if they took me.

[ And he had anyway. He knew what they would do, he knew what he would find, he knew it would take them days, weeks before they saw fit to end his life. He had known vaguely what the bloodmages might do but this-

How could anyone predict this. No Crow survived such a thing. You went on that hook and you either died from it or killed yourself afterward.

He was no crow-

but he is not strong enough to endure this. ]

It is not about having left them- that I will never regret. It is-

I have people that think they know me. Alistair knows me, this is true, but the rest? You? You know a mask. A lie. And I cannot continue the play.

Then end the play.

[Bruce says it simply but he knows it is no easy matter - for Bruce himself has his own mask, the one of the kind and gentle surgeon that everyone likes and approaches for help. He wants to help, yes, but the kindness? The gentleness? He knows deep inside it is all false. Deep inside him there is nothing but hate. Hate and anger and rage against the world that made him lose everything.

But--this isn't about him. Bruce himself is beyond saving. But the same cannot be said for Zevran.]

This entire thing is on your own terms, Zevran. You have the choice on what you wish to do. Keep up the mask, as broken as it is, or let it drop entirely and give these people a chance.

['These people' he says because Bruce knows he probably has no favor with Zevran, especially after this - the elf has made it that clear, and for Bruce it is no loss. He's lived with enough vitriol and hate and a bit more won't kill him.

You can't kill a person who's already dead.]

Edited 2016-02-10 05:27 (UTC)

If it is so simple a thing, why do you not do the same?

[ How deep it runs or how long it goes- he does not know that for certain. But he does know this? Isn't Bruce. It is some act, some ploy, a play all his own meant to curry favor though he does not seem to wish any affection or power or influence that might come of it. It is something he does to hide whatever secrets gave him his scars and leaves him uneasy around compliments or consideration. ]

Why hide?

[ A mask may be what Zevran used to keep life easy and simple, but this? This thing Bruce wears and walks around as instead of whatever it is he might be in truth Is far more dishonest in ways he can't begin to describe.

The idea of setting aside his masks, of being something else- of speaking what he thinks rather than twisting himself about to be what they might find appealing?

It cannot be so simple as that. ]

[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?

[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.]

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.

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