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 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, don't you start."

Her eyes flash, and before he can scurry away she's dropping her knees on the stone, her thick skirts piling around her. Then, after a moment of debate, she reaches up to unfasten the front of her fur-lined cloak and tugs it away, moving to drape it around his thin shoulders.

Perhaps some would have taken the opportunity to oggle. Even with scars, he was still a ridiculously beautiful elf. But all she could see was how sorely he needed to realize that he was of worth, that he would be missed, and perhaps consider that this pain too could pass in time.

"And you're not allowed to leap to your doom with my cloak, before you get any more idiotic ideas," she adds, her lips thinning.

Edited 2016-02-10 16:51 (UTC)

"I-" Am not starting, he's feeling. He's not trying to run to the ledge but away from her and her sentiment and now there was a cloak about him and he-

He did not know what one does in this situation. Usually when a Crow wished to die it did not take much effort to see it done. In the past ten years- he had darker days. Rougher nights. Never to this pitch and even then. Even in the last moment when he had been so determined it ended with him in the dirt, blood in his mouth, staring up at his savior.

Given purpose again.

Here and now it is the cold flagstones, heart in his throat knotted around black, bitter pain and sentiment he has no words for- looking up at one of the singularly most compassionate people he has ever known. That wastes it on him and does not think such a thing wasteful. "I- I would never. It is ingallant to steal a Lady's cloak."

"Ingallant." There's a strained noise that could be a laugh. "Maker forbid."

That compassion comes with a fury, entangled with it and perhaps the source of its strength, in truth. Each subsequent loss in her life has only hardened her resolve to endure, because there has to be a reason. There has to be purpose beyond the pain, no matter how terrible.

Zevran is in an enormous amount of pain, that's clear enough for anyone, but he could endure this. It could even be worth it. And perhaps there's some selfishness there too, on her part, unwilling to watch someone else slip out of her grip. Mia's eyes remain steady on him, and the dampness at the corners becomes embarrassingly apparent. They haven't fallen, so she ignores them instead, taking a steadying breath.

"Don't you leave us. Don't you dare."

Odd. When he'd first swaggered up to her she'd have gladly thought of any reason to send him away, and here she is, fingers still knotted in the thick fabric of that cloak, unwilling to say goodbye just yet.

"...I cannot give you my word in this." He would before in a heartbeat- and it would be a lie. But after this- after being yanked from the void and given her cloak, given the truth of her frustrations and perhaps her sentiment in the tears that have not yet fallen...

Lying would be unworthy. Not that he is ever terribly concerned with being worthy but it is a disservice to them both.

"I cannot-" Breathe. Or see. Or feel, some days, and those are the days when the battlements call is the strongest, when all that is aching and hollow in him no longer aches and his skin is so too numb to the touch. To come into the cold where the wind claws at him till he feels as though he ought to be bleeding. "I cannot promise that."

Better honesty than a comforting lie. Surely he must have had to pretend for enough people as it was. Doing so while feeling so utterly numb was so very, very tiring.

But there were always reasons to, always obligations, weren't there?

Mia blinks twice, very quickly, before giving a jerking sort of nod. She understands, even if the answer twists cold in her stomach. It could still happen, he could still slip away and nothing anyone could say would be enough. Her grip loosens, smoothing over his shoulders.

"...what did they do to you?"

It's less a question to be answered than a quiet, bitter lament. Whatever it was had to be monstrous, to have broken him like this.

"Nothing I would lay at your feet." there are some he might tell- not Alistair, he won't understand, not Mia for she has taken on more than he ever wished to put on her shoulders in this already. He was to be a pleasant diversion to her, a charming associate, someone to tease and play chess with and smile. Not...this.

She did not need this.

He wished to protect her. That was noble, in its way. That or he wished to protect himself, and that she could not have blamed him for either. This was a great deal more than either of them would have expected from the other, before now.

But these troubled times changed people. She'd lived through them once before, and known just how true it was, how much a person could change. Impossible to say what Zevran might have thought of the girl she was back then, and no reason to question it now. What was, was.

"...I was told the Hero of Ferelden passed through our village, once. Long after the Darkspawn took it. A little spit of land called Honnleath." The words felt leaden on her tongue, but necessary. She'd yet to let go. "Do you remember it?"

"..." Of all the things he might have been asked- of everything he could think to discuss while here after being pulled back from the brink- this was not on the list. For a moment he stared at Mia, wide eyed and incredulous before a burble of something helpless and ruinous burst forth, high and raw, snatched away by the wind as fast as he could breathe. Honnleath.

"That- that is the village where we found Shale."

That almost brings a laugh to her lips, though it dies halfway. "Yes. Though if we'd known it was a golem, I doubt many of us would have braved going near it," she admits, the corner of her mouth curling for a moment. She can still picture it standing there in the town square, as she lifted Rosalie in her arms to place flowers about its stone head for the festival.

But her smile fades. "You saw what became of it. We'd heard rumors of Darkspawn in the wilds, but it seemed so far away. The army would turn it, surely. Arl Eamon would send forces to protect us. We never..."

Her voice falters a moment, and she swallows hard.

"We were completely unprepared when they came. Surrounded by friends and family, there at home, we thought we were safe."

"...Does it ever return?" It does not make sense, that he asks, that he thought he deserved to know. Never before had he thought himself truly safe, there'd always been that awareness. That fear. But here-

Here he'd been comfortable. Felt secure. He had assumed he would see the signs. That should the Crows try to take him he would know them for what they were before they could make the attempt- that others would be able to protect him as well. "Feeling...safe. Does that ever return?"

Or is it lost forever?

He'd only just begun to settle into that sentiment- that damnable sensation of belonging. Of having a home.

Lies, reassurances, all seem unworthy even were she inclined towards them. Her lips tighten as she takes a breath, eyes lifting skyward for a moment. The view really is spectacular.

"Not all at once. Some nights are better than others." And some nights every noise feels like a warning, nerves rasping raw and on edge. Slowly her gaze lowers, another deep breath taken. "I've found keeping busy helps. Exhaustion means fewer nights awake to contemplate. But it's gotten better. It never goes away entirely, but..."

A happier prospect might have encouraged him to reconsider, but she can't do that. She almost wishes she could, if that's what it would take to convince him.

The honesty is worth more than he could hope. Platitudes, comforting, soft, hollow words he has had his fill of- when all one is fed is empty sweetness one becomes sick. It hurts, the weight of it cutting through that saccharine kindness to sit in his stomach like a hunk of stale bread. But it is real. And it is honest.

He does not know if he has the right- but he leans in, resting his forehead against her shoulder. A level of contact they've never before have but- the wind is cold and she is warm in so many ways, radiating a strength he would steal for himself if given half a chance. "I suspect this is not one of my better nights."

And it does not matter how new it is, how little they know. Whatever might have been. Maker knows the world could use a little more kindness before propriety or whatever else might hold people at bay.

It's instinctive. One hand lifts to cup against the back of his head, stroking soothingly before holding him there as best she can. Propriety be damned. He's hurting. That's all that matters.

"They will come. If you let them. I promise you that."

Perhaps it is a pain she can never truly understand. But he cannot frighten her away with whatever darkness he has faced. She's seen enough to know how ugly despair is, and she will not turn away and leave him to it.

He shudders at the press, chokes back a soft noise. Something wounded, something weary, something unbecoming- but when has he ever cared about such things? Never. Such comfort isn't granted to people like him- they drink or fight or fuck their way through these darker spaces. Hands held and hair petted, it is not something he is granted.

Not something to which he is accustomed.

Selfish creature that he is, he soaks it in for as long as it's offered. "How do I let them?"

If he can learn this- if he can learn to not be so lost, to not be so achingly numb- he will do so in a heartbeat.

Her teeth worry her lower lip, unseen, her brow knitting. "I don't know that there's an easy answer," she admits.

She hadn't known one. She remembers sitting on the back of a wagon as it rattled over the road, near catatonic, refusing to react to anything at all. Everything had been a faint noise, a blur of gray and brown. Nothing had felt real, anymore.

Then she'd felt little Rosalie grasping desperately at her hand. Don't leave us too.

"My sister and brother were what pulled me free." Her hand stills, settling warmly against his back, and the ruff of fur now tucked around him where they sit. "I saw them one day just watching me. Frightened. They were but children, then. They couldn't survive that madness alone. I had to endure, for them."

Her eyes trail downwards, letting that sink in for a moment. "Is there no one you would choose to live for?"

"Alistair." He doesn't have to think before the name's on his lips- it is the crack that crumbles the dam as little by little, more names trickle out. "Leliana, Keiran- the Crows we liberated, River."

He hitches a soft breath, mumbling. "You? Or- I do not know more than that. People know me but they've no reason to need me."

A fine diversion, an excellent blade. He is- was- both of these things. What more could anyone wish of him? Alistair is the only one that might need him. Kieran and Leliana might miss him.

Later, she'll revisit her own place on that list with puzzlement, curiosity perhaps. But now hardly seems the time.

"Well, I need you." Her eyebrows raised with a very faint curl at the corner of her lips. "To keep me sharp at chess, test my wits and my patience all at once. Whoever could do as well as you at either?"

Being needed can dictate so much of a person's life, she can't argue that. But there's the mercenary, utilitarian way he means the word, and there's what she thinks of as need. A requirement for more than just survival, but living. Smaller joys and complications that made it worth living.

Before he can ask 'for what' for she has enough in her life without his foolishness, whatever diversion he might offer- and she answers. Nothing with his skin, nothing with his knives- a different definition of need.

How is that at all something she needs- let alone from him? He frowns faintly against her shoulder before sitting back to look her in the face.

"I could offer a list of names but I feel attempting to do so at this moment would be terribly unwise."

There's a faintly derisive noise at that, and a swallow to push back any earlier slips of composure. "You haven't completely lost your senses, then."

But the smile she finds is warm, even as her brow knots. "None of them would be you. They would not have your laugh. Your talent for remembering and capturing the heart of people with a brushstroke. Your tenacity and your...dubious sense of charm." One eyebrow lifts.

"They could be emulated but never be you. And if the world would not be poorer for its loss, mine would be."

"I-" What does one say to that? He has never before been faced with this level of concern, this depth of sentiment from anyone other than Alistair and even then? It is framed as a joke or one or both of them are not sober enough at the time to make a thing of it. Here he is painfully sober and it is Mia in all her hard edged compassion that cracks him open, no to peer, but to pour in warmth.

What does he say to this?

"I...owe you a game." Chess. Chess is safe. "I fear I missed a few while I was away."

Let it be chess, then, if he likes. The fact that he's offering does a little to ease those hard lines at the corners of her eyes, and she reaches absently to smooth a bit of fur at the front of the cloak.

"You do at that. I intended to wait and see if you'd rejoin me of your own volition," she replies, not unkindly. "And I realize I'm not the only one who desi--"

Stop. Rephrase.

"Who would request your company," she finishes after a moment, her mouth thinning. "Maker knows I can keep myself well occupied until you feel up to it."

"Ah-ha!" He brings a hand up to poke at her shoulder (were it Isabela he'd poke her collar but that is a touch too close to the bosom and he is, honestly, trying to mind the line with Mia), and what uncertainty and weariness that had called him to the battlements fell away somewhat. "I knew it."

She wants him. For his chess game, of course, but that is something he can take.

"Oh I imagine so, mia Bella, in all sorts of fascinating ways."

And oh, the look she gives him at that. "Don't you even--"

Too late. It's done. Zevran is nearly back in his unbearable form once more, that momentary triumph in his voice. It's far better than how she found him, though that doesn't stop her exasperation with him rising with a weary sigh. "Maker's breath, must you? Here I was nearly feeling fondly towards you."

Which is as close to a lie as it comes. The fondness is there, and she is not entirely put out by his shenanigans. He doesn't mean them, after all, and she doesn't blame him for it. How could she? They all cope with loss and pain in their own ways, do they not?

She refuses to encourage him, however.

He evens. Unrepentantly, he evens. How can he not when she hands him such things on a silver platter and this- perhaps- is what she means. This is certainly worth hanging on for awhile longer, when the void doesn't call at him so deeply, when the numbness doesn't shake him quite so much.

Not warm just yet- but not numb. He'll take it.

"Perhaps I will desist if you trounce me soundly in our next match, yes? And yes. I must. It is what I live for, Mia, your exasperated sighs and your clucking tongue." Without them he'd probably have fallen away nights ago.

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