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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This, those words, are part of the very reason she did not come sooner. Or perhaps it was her pride, as he said before. Perhaps she is exactly what he says she is - and what has she made herself that was not entirely necessary? The Nightingale frowns, standing steady, hands behind her back. "Then consider me silent, on that count," she replies, cooly.

She knows what it is, to be tortured. And yet, she cannot claim a familiarity with his experience at all. Each terrifying strike, each piece they would attempt to carve away from you, it cannot be compared. Her own experience could be boiled down to that of a cast aside lover. Zevran's could be boiled down to a long-awaited comeuppance of a traitorous servant. Both are true, and both are offensively inaccurate. He wants her to yell, she thinks. Wants her to be angry and bitter, and part of her is, but she holds herself back. "I did not ask your forgiveness. I expressed my regret, and you have dismissed it out of hand. But if it is my position as spymaster that you question, I will not accept the charges so easily."

Frost could crawl over her words, delicate patterns blossoming over with the cold stretch of it. "What does the Divine do, if not the Maker's will? And the Left hand sees that will carried out, at any cost. The conviction is justified. And now, against Corypheus? Tell me you would want someone who lacked conviction and readiness taking up my mantle." No, she does not doubt her aptitude at that, at least. She despised what happened to Zevran, it was a mark on her conscience, and sometimes moves did not work out as calculated - but she is far beyond so many.
"You cannot speak to me of faith, and you know it."

She has been loyal to her cause, has given her life to it, will do anything for the people within Skyhold because it is her duty to see them safe.

"But have your precious mercy, if you must. The Crows are yours to do with what you will. I would not tamper with your judgment."

"I dismiss it for there is nothing that you need regret. The crows came, they took their due, they died for it. That is the end of the matter. Regret does nothing." This argument does nothing but sour what little good humor he had left in him for the day- something he has so rarely that he misses the warmth it offers with a keen ache.

What manner of world is this where his is the voice that bids mercy, where Morrigan looks beyond mere acquisitions of power and survival-

And Leliana holds the dagger that cuts countless throats and calls it faith.

"You are not my family, and thus there is nothing to regret." The rest- he has no faith, no place to speak on the matter. The lines have so clearly been drawn. "Speak to me when you are Leliana again, and I will listen."

For now-

For now he cannot endure this frost nor this contempt, none of this self righteous human bullshit. He keeps his good side to her so she would remain in view as he crouches, collecting his things- the wine, the basket, the cushion he'd had behind his head, before standing.

"Very well." She does not believe it, not for a moment. Hurts are not so easily swept aside, traumas do not heal so quickly, and regret cannot be eased with words alone. Zevran needs time, and for all that she tried to give him that, she both granted too much and too little.

(It is a terrifying thing, and worth pondering. What would their absent friends make of the changes in them? Would they even be recognisable to them, or would they have transformed as well? Sten as an idle chatterbox, that was a change the world might never prepare for.)

His words are a slap across the face, and for a moment it is all Leliana can do to simply stand and watch him, not rail or retaliate. "And what do you imagine Leliana would say that I do not?"

No, this is absurd, and she moves closer (finally) to take the bottle of wine before he might move away. Still, she cannot offer her words quickly, but after a couple of moments manages, "You have every right to be angry, but do not try to be so idealistic and so bitter at the same time. It won't flatter either of us."

Edited 2016-02-09 11:44 (UTC)

"That she missed me. That she is angry with me for leaving her afraid. That it serves me right for wandering around outside skyhold with a single student. She would make light and natter on about shoes or her nugs or- anything but this." This being the Inquisition, being faith, being conviction. He slows to a stop, stills when she takes the bottle of wine. The eye on her is still shuttered and wary- is it the Sister or is it his sister that speaks. "I cannot bear the weight of this. Not today. Alistair's guilt drowns me- I do not need that from you as well."

A little of both, it seems.

"It is not idealism, Leliana. It is honesty. Be and do what you must- but be honest with yourself as to what it is you have done, what it is you continue to do. As set against this as you were before- truly you can see why I have my reservations." A vision of a rose that he teased her for- faith is unknown and foreign to an assassin. He's never had much faith in the maker- never had much faith in humanity or even those of his own kind.

But the men and women he traveled with during the blight? They gave him faith. "This is not you."

"That goes without saying." That she missed him, that she was worried, and perhaps that is the crack in the Nightingale's facade, the first indication of Leliana slipping through... or perhaps it is no more than a moment of weakness. Voice very soft, she clears her throat, before continuing. "And after this you've forfeited your right to there ever being a Zevnug. Unless I get one that needs an eyepatch, and even then."

She is standing as the sun goes down, and the evening air begins to take on a greater chill, holding a bottle of wine in both hands, and looking at it as if it was responsible for all the ills in the world. If it is Ferelden wine, well, that's entirely plausible.

"Please do not think me stupid, Zev." Quietly, but less cold. "I know exactly what I do. I carry the weight of every decision and every consequence, but-- my conscience is an easy thing to sacrifice, if there is a chance to stop Corypheus. Next to Thedas? Whether or not this is me does not matter."

She does not matter; her life does not matter. That is an easy equation to consider.

There- that is what he's needed. That is what he's wanted and been denied in Alistair's extended fretting, his apologies and his nudging. The laughter that cracks out of him is sharp and rough edged- the joke she's made in awful, terrible taste but he leans against the tree to steady himself all the same. Too high, too bright, too sharp to be anything truly mirthful- but a laugh is a laugh. He has to wipe damp away from his eye when he catches his breath.

Perhaps all is not lost.

And then she steps back and the weight returns and he- he rolls his eyes, sliding down to sit once more. He is not having this conversation sober. Not if he can help it. "If we are going to talk about how you are not stupid and still being hypocritical, I am going to drink. Sit and uncork the wine at least."

Edited (i can spel) 2016-02-09 12:30 (UTC)

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.

"There is little mystery to be had here but- another day." He lists to the side until their shoulders are brushing- settles and leans there against her as though this was any number of trees they sat under ten years ago. Any numbers of bottles of wine. Things they saw and things they survived- things they changed.

Hardened or not; they became more than what they were. Perhaps he needs to remember that.

He takes the bottle back and swigs from the neck, offering it to her with a slow sigh. "We could be doing more. And you? Could be doing less. I do not understand how it is we've all come to this muddling mess- me doing as I have ever done and little has come of it, Alistair being himself, Morrigan hiding- well. She had reason. And you. Left hand of the Divine. The work is good. That it has hardened your heart? Worries me- but of all of us you are the one that stepped forward or backward to shape Thedas. Even Wynne did more with her time than I."

Circling around an idea, and it tied into their earlier argument. "...How do you do it? Lock away Leliana, become The Nightingale? Even when they call me Ombra Nera I am but myself but for them- those I have saved...I need to be more."

"Wynne was a remarkable woman," because it is easier to talk about Wynne than it is to talk about everything else. There is only so much you can disappoint the dead, but she dreads to think what Wynne would make of her, now. Would she understand? Or condemn?

"How?" How, an excellent question indeed. She did it because she must, at all costs. How was not... it was not something she strictly considered. "I deny the parts of myself that question and doubt. I remind myself that this is no trifling game with cheap stakes. We fight for the future of Thedas - though more literally, now, than when I followed Justinia's orders."

She drags a fingertip up the length of the bottles neck before grasping it and raising it to her lips, though she does not drink immediately. "I remind myself that I, my wants, do not matter. That change, especially that which would be resisted, demands the very highest order or pragmatism if it is to be seen through. Elves, mages, rifters and those bearing shards, even, they all of them face adversity, some more ingrained in history and requiring a more vicious fight. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good. A soft heart cannot endure in such circumstances."

Finally she allows herself some of the wine, and then takes a second gulp, enjoying the sensation on the back of her throat before passing it back. "You do not have to be the Nightingale. What did you need, when you departed the Crows? Surely nothing like me?" She thinks about it, smile crooked.

"...You know what that sounds like, Leliana? It sounds much like how we, as Crows, were taught to harden our hearts for the kill. While your purpose is different and more noble...I spent much of the year with Jonas unlearning that. You spent time in Lothering doing much the same." Not a condemnation, he is truly too sober and too weary for it, but the comment is one worth making. They have both been in such a situation before, he worked out of it as best he could on his own. Leliana seemed better suited to moving forward with that conviction but-

The world spins on and people change.

He simply never expected her to change back.

"Less the 'greater good' and more 'the benefit of the crows' but- It is familiar enough." What she makes of it is for her to decide. He? He is sipping wine and staring out into the clearing where the crows- no. His little birds had been training. "I need to be something they can depend on. Something that can lead them to being more than Crows. When I left...all I needed was the ability to choose for myself what I wanted. Teaching them that? Has been difficult."

Her smile has faded away, though it had not been much to begin with. They never are, these days. There is too much weight.

"If our enemies have hearts hardened and prepared to take any course of action, then there must be one of us prepared to take the same strikes. To counter them, to stop them short. If we only ever wait for them to move first and are constantly left floundering, then what hope do we have of gaining the upper hand? What if we show them the hand of mercy, only to be betrayed, or have them strike back against us with renewed vigour?" Leliana shakes her head. "Necessity drives me. I... I was able to enjoy a good deal of naivety travelled with you all during the Blight, but those were more innocent times.'

To think, that she would ever think of the Blight in such a way, and she shakes her head again. "Judge me, if you must. Condemn me, even, but I will do whatever must be done to ensure the Inquisition's success." There is no heat, and no anger. A quiet acceptance, really. She has known this a long time.

Thinking for a moment, Leliana just leans back and looks at the sky. The stars are starting to show in the paintwork of dark purples and deep pinks that reach across the sky, each one a reminder of the Maker's grace, of what it is that it is so important to fight for. "How well do you know them?"

It is not the question of a Spymaster assessing, no. It is more a consideration. "The better you know them, the better you can read their hearts, make the connection that they need to understand."

"I do not judge, Leliana. You know that well enough- nor do I condemn you." Again, she knows why he cannot and will not say or feel such things. What he admits, though, is far more rare and weighty. Something he does not care to say and yet? Must say again, reaching over to curl his fingers around her hand. "I fear for you. Living like that-"

It can kill a man. It can destroy a soul. It is easy to twist things about to justify such harsh action before or after, they all watched Jonas take such strides at the tail end of the Blight. They all had their opinions, they all voiced or held them as needed. Zevran held his more often than not- for who ever bothered to care what an elf might think? No one that would stop in their work simply because he asked. Leliana...perhaps it is foolish to think his fears or concerns would change her course. What weight and worth do his thoughts have in the Inquisition?

Precious little.

"I would not see you lose yourself to this." No more than he would lose himself to be whatever it is his new crows need.

People do not reach for the Nightingale. They barely reach for Leliana, either. She is rigid and upright, keeps herself layered over in sharp wit and chainmail and leather. Idle contact is no longer something she tends towards, and then there is Alistair with his shoulder knocks and Zevran with his leaning, and both of them she can endure well enough. Someone reaching for her hand is unfamiliar, and she has to fight the urge to lean back, to evade. Attacks come before affection, or affection can be a mask for an attack. She tenses with the contact, before she reminds herself to ease off.

Sometimes I think myself already lost. One of the myriad things she cannot say, here, and she lapses into a long silence.

"So long as I have the faith and the trust of those dearest to me,"she starts, gently squeezing Zevran's hand in return, "I cannot be lost."

That is damning enough. There was a time ten years ago she would not tense but to shove him away with a hand on his face for his leering and teasing. This paranoid tension is as familiar as it is heartbreaking, more than enough for him to turn their hands about to entwine their fingers. Their callouses slot into place like a key in a lock; similar weapons, similar blood on their skin. "It is easy to tell yourself that when you see no end. To bury yourself in the work and shave off bits of your soul until there is nothing left for you to lose. One more mission, one more job."

He tips his head against her shoulder.

"You find comfort where you can, in doing your work well in willing bodies, in letters and games of chance. Use that to tell yourself that it is worthwhile so long as you have this; that a laugh or a game of cards makes you still human while you hand out pieces until you are hollow. Yes?"

I am already hollow, she could tell him. That a year with Jonas and her scant time in the Lothering Chantry were not enough to undo what Marjolaine had taught her, and what Dorothea and then Justinia needed her to be. She does not. She had hoped to be here for her friend, and instead he is making attempts to pry into the state of her soul and know that which she would sooner remained unseen.

Leliana remains silent, for a time, allowed him to take her hand and to tilt his head against her shoulder, and keeps her gaze focused on some idle point in the descending darkness.

"Let it be, Zevran," comes her response, slow and calm and even. "I am glad to grant my services to the Inquisition. Let that be enough."

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

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