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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.
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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Honestly it's the lack of irritation at Barkley trying to hop up that makes him stir from where he hadn't been sketching, the page under his fingers empty. "Ah? No. Doghren curls up on the sheets as often as Alistair."
He can't not let Barkley up if he permits them their lounging.
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"Go on, then. Stay out of the cookies." Pause. "I brought cookies."
Which he can probably see, but Merrill is just fussing a bit. She had been so worried, though she doesn't want to tell Zevran as much. She doesn't want to upset him, doesn't want him to have to think about those who were left behind and unable to do anything while he was being tortured. That's not fair to him, and Merrill can worry elsewhere. At least she's usually socially awkward.
With Barkley on the bed, Merrill sits as well, offering the plate of treats.
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Which is something he could use, truly. Doghren pokes her head up from where she'd been curled at Zevran's shoulder, snuffling in the direction of a new dog. Precious, hideous thing that she is, she deeps neither Barkley nor Merrill a thread and curls back up in a scraggly little ball. What a marvelous guard dog he has. How safe he is.
"Have I ever told you how you always seem to know precisely when to show up?" He'd been listing to thinking of the battlements again- and then Merrill. With a dog. And cookies. And a book- "What is it you have there?"
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Barkley is simply pleased to see his sister, tail wagging before he scoots forward to sniff at her. She has new smells, after all, but after some snuffling and little woofs, he too curls up. His eyes are still open, though, ears perked; for now, he's alert. Most likely for any crumbs.
"No, you haven't, but thank you," Merrill smiles, dipping her head a bit. It must just be luck, but she's happy to provide. As for the book, well- her smile turns a bit embarrassed, cheeks reddening, and she turns it over so he can see the cover. It is, of course, one of the dirty books from Skyhold's library -- either a new addition or one taken from Isabela. "I thought you might like it, and instead of us both reading it separately, we can read it together."
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For his part, Zevran obediently nibbles on one of the cookies; it would be impolite to not and Merrill is one of the few he does not cherish the idea of treating poorly. For reasons beyond his comprehension. Like most anything else he only half tastes what he puts in his mouth but- it is solid, it is food, he chews, he swallows. It looks well enough. Perhaps he even tastes the sweetness. "I- what?"
Dirty books.
"...You brought smutty literature to read with me." A beat. "Merrill if it wouldn't get me stabbed by a great many people I would ravish you where you sit."
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She's still a bit red, hurrying to explain before what Zevran's said has really processed. "Well, you like them, and I like them, and I thought- wait, what?" Blinking. "Who's going to stab you? I'm not going to stab you."
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Or, well. 'Making friends'.
Still, Zevran is laughing and Merrill smiles at him again, settling in at his side. "It'll take some time to get through the whole book, so I'll have to keep coming back, you know."
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How is he to thank her for such a thing? "Colombina, you may come as many times as you wish to read to me."
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There is a moment of thought, a little flush at the use of her pet name -- she adores it, she truly does. It's perhaps the use of it, the little laughter, that has her carefully peel the blankets and furs back just enough for Merrill to slip in under them with Zevran. The pups have to wiggle around, sniffing pointedly at her, but she ignores them and sets the book so that it's across both their laps.
"Well, then I'm going to have to get more books."
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It is Merrill. She is formidable, she is kind, and she brought him smutty literature. Part of him may be just a touch enamored. The rest is glad for the distraction from the ache in his bones or the darkness in the back of his mind. This is too sweet, too absurd to be a dream in a way only speaking to Merrill can be. "Isabela has some of the best- but I have more than a few tucked away on the shelf if you would like to borrow them."
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"Oh, then once we finish this one, we'll have plenty to pick from! Good." There's a look over toward the shelf, and then a bit of a laugh. "But we have to start this one, first! It seems to be about a hunter and a blacksmith." She licks the tips of her fingers and then opens the book. "Should I do voices for the different characters?"
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"Can you pitch your voice low enough for the blacksmith? He seems a robust fellow."
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"Oh, I think so!" It may sound a bit like her Varric imitation, but as long as the blacksmith never says 'no shit, there I was', it should be passable. "And I'll get plenty of practice."
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But mocking the stories themselves, well. That was half the fun. Or arguing about them. Merrill herself is nothing short of a treasure for bringing this to him.