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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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It is a touch of brutal, broken honesty one can only truly offer a stranger- and how much more strange can one get than a man that is not even of this world?
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It's no less frank for the stoicism with which its delivered; it isn't revelation of weakness if it doesn't, in his opinion, make him weak. He knows it well, and still, here he is. Each and every damned day, here he is, despite the pointlessness of it, despite how easy it would be-- better, maybe.
He is so tired of himself. It's pride that keeps him alive, he thinks; too proud to let it be true that all he has left to do is die.
"It's just another lie."
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He is no fool. He courted his own demons and pays the price.
"And it's never men such as myself that pay for our mistakes, is it? We brood in the dark with a strong drink in front of a fireplace, preferably one with a fur rug before it, and feel terribly masculine about the whole affair," a little carelessly, "and leave everyone else to piece together the wreckage. Out here. On the battlements."
He produces a small flask from somewhere on his person; offers it to Zevran after taking a drink.
"I can rebuild my life. I have done it before, I am sure I will do it again. You are in a position here not to be sniffed at, stranger. You can, as well. And you ought. If for no other reason than that men like me shouldn't be the only ones who walk away, when it ends. A world where bastards like me are all that's left standing isn't particularly worth saving." There's no self-pity in the critical observation; it is, ultimately, not so different from the premise of the knighthood he once served.
Men who made choices and sacrifices to allow there to be a world where others didn't have to.
"We'll still save it," he says, reflectively. "Granted."
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This handsome man.
That keeps talking.
It's not quite condescending and not quite pedantic- but it does drone. The simplest way to silence such a man is with a fist- that he cannot throw for being uncertain of his aim, or his mouth- which he will not give for feeling particularly abhorrent and hideous.
Thus he is doomed to endure the droning that is not entirely awful to hear. "...You are prompting me to refrain from leaping out of spite."
Is the gist.
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He caps the top of it and leans his elbows on the stone, insufferably relaxed about the entire thing - here is a man arguably capable of lounging upright. It's an irritating trait of his that he's always exploited to best effect; Martel has long known exactly what he is. He molded himself into the professional prick that now drones interminably - he doesn't need the reminder, but he isn't going to bristle at it, either.
"If it does the job. Why should what causes you pain be allowed the satisfaction of victory? Why should the enemies of this Inquisition, of which there are fucking many I have noticed, be allowed to have one less enemy of their own among us? Spit in their teeth. Take three of them with you."
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Perhaps it should serve him now.
"I usually take ten for every cut they manage." Whatever had been at the stronghold- save the six he recruited for himself- is no more. "...I owe them at least a hundred after this."
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What a visual. He almost lets the remark about handsome men being asses pass unremarked upon, but he is nothing if not incapable of leaving well enough alone, and so, after a few moments of consideration,
"I was once told it was because handsome men with titles don't think we need personalities."
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Up here, now. There are fewer still. Later there may be more. They found their way in once, after all.
"Considering my experience of such men? That is not entirely inaccurate." Hobbies do not a fully rounded individual make.
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There is more to that story - a great deal more, and a great deal of pain that is not Martel's. But it wasn't without its moments worth repeating, lingering hints of affection that don't suggest he carries a torch. He doesn't. It would be better, maybe, if he did. Or at least - a more poignant sort of awful, instead of the bleak, mundane callousness that was the least unique part of all he did wrong.
"I understand her husband to be a very good man. Your guess is as good as mine as to what that means for his company."
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Sometimes he gets a good fuck out of it. More often than not? A great deal of coin.
"That he can hold a conversation well and knows how to use his mouth where and when it counts."
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"I don't think anyone marries a knight for his conversational skills. The other, perhaps."
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"It is not the sword, in my experience, that defines the reception one receives in a lady's bed."
This is an appropriate conversation to be having with someone still on the ledge.
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As it were.
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"Well," he says, philosophical, "I have few enough redeeming features. It rather obliges a man to work a little harder that his companion for the evening might not have cause to regret her generosity."
Martel, the renegade, the man who'll go down because he knows his charming personality isn't going to be what she remembers fondly.
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"Has no one ever told you to do what you love?"
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