faderift | 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

He says nothing for a long moment, curled on his side- one of the days where he is not so much angry and biting as he is numb and weary. But sleep is difficult to find and Alistair tries to get him to talk-

Of course he lets Isabela in. He cannot even manage to be irritated with either of them for this. "You are selfish, Bela."

He can't even muster the heat he wishes to put behind that statement. "But that is one thing we have in common."

"We both learned it young, like it or not. It's one of those things that just never changes."

She bites back a sigh. It's hard seeing him like this. He's not the first friend of hers to go through such a personal hell, and Isabela's never been that great at playing the comfort game. The talking. The feelings.

"Some things do, though. Life does. You changed mine, that's for damned sure. You helped make me Isabela. All that can be done is decide who to be in the changed world."

Briefly, she touches his arm.
"I'm not asking anything of you. But if you ever need it, need a change of scene, whatever, I'm sure you'd have no problem finding my leather book."

"...what am I to be now, then?" He rolls over, turning to press his forehead against his hip. Easier to hide he eye when it's pressed to the mattress, to hide his uncertainty when his voice is muffled. "How am I to remake myself. I am half blind."

The shaking would leave in time. He could fight again, in time. But the eye- the scars? How can he be the old Zevran with a marred face, with an eye that cannot see? When everything in him twists about and he doesn't know truth from fade dream?

"You're not going to let that stop you, are you? I've got men in my crews missing eyes, limbs, you name it, and they're still damned fine sailors."

"Look... Zev. You remember how I was, back in the day. Halfway between Naishe and Isabela. Had a ship I didn't know how to sail. Knives I only knew how to use because of you. I wasn't anyone, until I decided what I wanted to be and fought for it with every weapon I had. Maybe you can't be who you were. But this is your chance to become something else, even something more, if that's what you want to do. You're part of the Inquisition now, whatever that means to you."

Lightly, she stroked his hair.
"You don't have to decide right now. But give it some thought. Think about what you still have. What you can get, if you want it. You still have me, if nothing else."

"I am an assassin, not a sailor." It'd be easier if he was. His life might have been terribly different- an honest life or close to one on the sea, crashing through the waves, far from blood and pain and death. A different sort of pain, different sort of death by drowning but...

He'd never have met who he's met, tasted what he's had-

Lost what he's lost.

He shudders through another ache, swallowing around a knot in his throat. "I do not know what that is, Bela.

"Not the point, Zev. The point is that they don't let it stop them from doing what they love to do."

She can hear the tightness in his voice.
"Hey... Hey, come here." She gathers him up against her bosom, gently and carefully.

"I'm still with you. Whatever you decide to do."

He loved the hunt- the chase. He loved enthralling his targets with a wink and a smile. He loved making the kills quick and clean, the tales that came from them afterward. How much of this could he do now, down an eye?

He goes as he's pulled, burrowing his cheek against her bosom. Warm and familiar- a broken joke twists past his lips. "Even if I am not as pretty?"

"You're still pretty, Zev." She bends her head and kisses him lightly, as if to prove her point. Her hand lingers against his cheek.

"Matter of fact, a nice eyepatch, a rakish scar... Mmm. Add an air of mystery to the whole ensemble... You'll be even more irresistible than before. Have that tough, bad boy vibe. No one can say no to that."

He goes tense under her hands in a way he's never been tense before- the heat and pressure so close to the blind eye, the affection- he turns his face away, burying it in her chest. Better that than a kiss. "You have not seen the eye."

To be honest- neither has he. But the idea of looking leaves him sick. "Do not ask to see it."

"I don't need to see it, Zev. I've seen men lose eyes before."

For a little while, she just lets him stay buried in her chest.
"We've been through a lot together, Zev. I'll be with you for this too. As long as you want me to stay."

Those men had not been raised knowing the only worth they had was in their face or their skill with knives- but he does not say as much. He remains, breathing, safe in the harbor of Isabela's arms. "Stay the night?"

This time there is no drink to blame for the sentiment.

"Yes."

Maybe she should have hesitated, but she doesn't. They are getting dangerously close to crossing That Line. The one they don't talk about. She doesn't care. Right now, Zev needs her. Or at least, he wants her. Fuck pretenses. She holds him a little closer, and lays down with him. She knows Alistair isn't far from them, and she doesn't care about that either.

"Afraid you're stuck with me, Zev," she whispers against his hair, "Like it or not."

What little tension he might have held- whatever fear that she would say no, insist on that line, step back to what is normal for them- it winds out. She will stay because...he cannot begin to wonder. He would rather not. This is easier, to take or give as offered, curled close even with Alistair on the other side of the door, probably due to wander in at any moment. "I think I can bear the idea."

Perhaps even enjoy it.

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

bad day

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