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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She's going to care. But that's what the pretense is for. He can make believe she cares as much or as little as he wants. So she can do this. Easily.

"Gin?" she offers, holding the flask out to him. She stretches out her legs so they lie across his.

"Brandy." He offers his bottle to her in exchange for the flask, trading them out with a faint nod of thanks. Gin burns differently, colder, brighter- tasting more of wood and winter than summer and fire of Antivan Brandy. But it works.

Coils down his throat and settles in his belly like lead. "Good gin."

The brandy is even harder to choke down than the gin, but it has a much nicer aftertaste. Her eyes water.

"Really? I can't tell the difference between the good stuff and the bad stuff."

Edited 2016-02-10 00:32 (UTC)

"The good stuff tastes like ice- the ache between your back teeth and the scent of pine. The bad stuff tastes of nothing." And it is better to not drink at all if one is going to drink something that tastes of nothing.

"Maybe that's why I like gin." Another swallow of brandy, and she's ready to trade it back to him. "Ice and pine. My parents told me that when my magic manifested, I froze the grass around me during a tantrum. From the time I was learning to walk, I was reaching for winter. Or something like that. I doubt they described Salem's tantrums so poetically."

He offers the flask back, swallowing down the lazy warmth of Brandy that tastes of home and stolen kisses on the rooftops of Antiva. "Gin is not terribly popular in my home- to bright, too bitter. We prefer sweetness in Antiva, or spice. A bit of both makes for a fine drink....but Winter does suit you."

"The way you talk about Antiva. I always imagine walking into a market there and smelling spices before I can see the merchant selling them. Everything looking like different shades of gold and caramel, except the clothes. Bright clothes, silk and cotton, the kind that don't fade easily. All the women as beautiful and graceful as Lady Montilyet, and all the men as charming as you. Or. Almost as charming."

She flashes a smile without looking at him, a secret he will only know if he's watching.

"Perhaps when it is safe I might take you." Not for her, but for him. They'd come all this way to end him, to take him back and break him. He can't imagine attempting to cross the border now.

"I'd like that." There, look at him supposing things about the future. Not just supposing taking her somewhere, but supposing things will one day be safe. A spark of of hope she can fan a bit.

"What's your favorite place you've ever been that wasn't Antiva?"

"Mmm..." He has to mull that over for awhile, sipping from his brandy. "You are going to laugh."

All his stories of fine adventures, all his tales of beaches and rooftops and the glittering of Antiva City and the sea- and his answer, when he finds it- is terribly mundane.

"I don't laugh easily. You might get a smile, though."

"There was... a little clearing where we would stop on our way in and out of the road to Redcliffe- nothing special, a few boulders, a pond or spring or something of the like off to one side shaded by trees, a few berry bushes, nothing extravagant but...it was well guarded on all sides and we were far enough from most holes in the ground out of which Darkspawn would crawl that it was safe." A little, nothing clearing, ten years ago in Ferelden.

All for sentiment.

"Now, why would a Dalish laugh at that?" She stretches her legs a bit. "All my favorite places were little nooks in the forest. There were different ones everywhere we traveled. I always found one when we made a new camp and played there by myself. The trees were my walls."

She's drunk, but sincere. That's how the forest always looked to her.

"Because it is me, and I hate camping and lingering in the woods?" He truly does. Insects, the dust of the road, no proper baths or showers or food? It's horrible. Without much thought he slips a hand down to catch her ankle, tugging it up to rub at the bottom of her foot. "It was one of the first places I ever felt truly safe. None of the Warden's companions were going to kill me. The Crows didn't know where I was...I had never known the feeling before."

She shifts more diagonally, giving him a better angle for a footrub. Her feet are dirty, but if he doesn't care, neither does she.

"Do you have a place like that here? I know there isn't much privacy."

"No." He might have, beyond the walls for a little while. But they came here. They took him, here. He hadn't even noticed and this- this tips into so many things he'd rather not think about that he focuses on the foot in his hand.

The dirty foot.

The- "Pel your feet are filthy."

"That's true. I do walk on them, you know."

"Through everything- Maker I think there are stones between your toes." He sets his bottle aside and sits up, peering down at the foot between his hands. "...Your nails need trimming and your feet a good oiling- your heels are cracked from the cold and stone- why do none of you wear shoes? It is all well and good in the woods where the worst thing you can step into is halla droppings but you are going to lose all your fine Dalish toes at this rate. They will be littered about skyhold for the ravens to steal as tiny treats."

"I put shoes on when it's cold enough. And you've never walked barefoot in the woods. There's lots of things to step on that hurt, especially when city folk dispose of glass there. Shoes are expensive."

"I have coin. I am buying you a proper pair of boots if nothing else." Everyone should have a good pair of boots, it is a rule.

"I have shoes, Zevran. I just can't afford to wear them too much. They've got to last as long as possible. Oh--I have a better idea anyway. We should go to the baths and keep drinking there. Then my feet will be clean."

"You can replace the soles of shoes for little expense." He mutters, picking at the aforementioned pebble. "That, that is a fine idea."

A bit of a pause.

"I didn't know that, about the soles. But what about the toes?"

She starts drunkenly sliding off the beam to set foot on the one below it, beginning the climb down to the hayloft.

"Why would the toes wear out? What are you doing with your shoes?" He does not take near as much time nor as much care, stoppering his bottle of brandy and rolling off the beam entirely. The drop to the loft below is a fair one- but he lands much like a cat.

Even drunk, crows land on their feet. Ha.

The shriek Pel lets out could be heard on the other side of Skyhold, but it's startled rather than terrified, and she lets out a self-conscious giggle afterward. She climbs down a little more carefully than Zevran, and lands with a flushed grin, too drunk to be ashamed of what her smile looks like with her underbite.

"Mythal save me," she says in gasping giggles, "I didn't know what you were doing for a second."

She didn't think he was trying to hurt himself--if that had crossed her mind, she would be reacting very differently. But it sure gave her a start.

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ombranera - 2016-02-18 04:48 (UTC) - Expand

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