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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He was Orlesian, yes, he knew the shortcomings of his country...he'd grown up in the alienages and he had a mother once, a mother who gained nothing by having a child who was elf-blooded. So he certainly had experiences that included relationships without gain, even if the memories were old, even if he could barely remember.

His patron as well, who offered him a chance, the scrappy boy on the streets who could offer him nothing, but it didn't matter, he'd seen something in Michel and he had given him a chance without asking for anything in return. Such things existed even in his country, in small, bright corners...too brilliant to be noticed.

The same thing he saw when Zevran pulled him to the bed, insisting he sit down, which he did so without argument, "this...is what I mean."

Whether it was concern or not, such a gesture gained Zevran nothing and Michel had not asked for it.

"You sit, you think me kind. You think me kind, you are more forgiving of my snapping or my scars. I gain favor in this." Everything was a transaction of some kind- what else would a boy that grew up where affection was sold for coin learn to think of the world? Everything had a price. The trick was knowing the currency before you made the purchase. Michel had been relatively easy to read until now.

All this confounding sentiment.

"That you are kind is a given," because Zevran had, indeed, been kind to him from the moment they met. Not always genuine, perhaps, but he had been kind...careful with Michel's body, perhaps even excessively so and patient with him. He hadn't judged him terribly simply because he wore armor and came from Orlais.

"You also do not need my forgiveness for the way you feel right now and certainly not for your scars," Michel could truly care less about such aesthetics to be honest.

"You don't have to suffer me, you don't have to offer this to me...whether you do or do not would not change my feelings," Michel was looking more at his hands now, than anything else. Careful words, artful forms of expression? He was not at all good at such things. That's why he was a warrior and not a philosopher.

"I am not kind." He was not good or noble or just- he was selfish. He wished for what he wished and he took it more often than not. He survived and that? Did not make him noble. He'd helped Jonas to give himself purpose and now was he to do the same with the inquisition? how was he to do so thus broken?

"There aren't feelings here- you don't- it isn't real. It's a game we play that makes you feel powerless, makes you feel cherished, that is not real. It is a fantasy we craft to pass the time. There is no truth to it." Pretending to own a human for a little while, that was the thrill for him. Michel coming into his own under his hands, twisting into every thrust, shuddering through every bite? That was the appeal.

But come the morning he set such things aside.

Or.

He tried to.

Michel glanced up at Zevran and while his eyes disagreed with him, he didn't argue, you couldn't convince someone that they were something they did not think they were through force. That was like trying to teach yourself to enjoy falling down. Things like this took patience...and of course as an assassin Zevran had been trained to think this way...but kindness did not mean someone had to be unreasonably virtuous.

That Zevran opted to leave the life of a cold-blooded killer? Spoke volumes more. He had taken part in saving their world once before and wished to do so again. A strictly selfish person cared only for their self-preservation and he could have left that dirty business in the hands of more interested parties. He could leave this current situation in the same way.

"I never did feel powerless, like it was a situation that I had no say in, that none of it was what I wanted. Vulnerable for wanting to give myself over to it, for wanting it carved into my bones, maybe even embarrassed I will not lie about such things, but never helpless...at least you never made me feel that way..." Michel inhaled slowly, as though this was a very complicated puzzle that he was trying to riddle through and it most certainly was complicated on some level, "...perhaps at first it might have been that sort of fantasy, but if it was strictly nothing then it would be easy to leave it. Something changed...and maybe it was just me, perhaps I changed..."

But Zevran didn't let him walk away that day either, so was he alone in it?

"Clearly I was not trying hard enough." Nothing he really needed to adjust in the future- for there wasn't going to be a future. He was not- they were nothing. Why did he persist in making something of it? In changing, in feeling things, in his open, blameless expectations that wished nothing more than he would give and left him feeling like an ass for not having anything else to offer?

Now, now he found the words, though some small traitorous part of him was loathe to make use.

"You need to go." He cannot, will not indulge in this sentiment. He cannot extend the game like this- for to him that was all it was. A game. Michel made for a fine toy and anything more the might have thought or felt or entertained? It wasn't-

It could not be. That was the end of it.

This was the end of it.

"There are many other things that likely require your attention do-" His voice clicked and he swallowed to steady it. "Do those."

Michel didn't react immediately, he leaned forward, steepled fingers pressed against his forehead. There was tension in his chest, it's origins he couldn't trace, he thought it might be his ribs acting up...but that was the kind of pain he could ignore. Whatever it was crept upwards, a heat along his neck and ears, cheeks and temple, that heat settle behind his eyes where it burned.

That's when he stood up abruptly, he was struck by a desire to move, fast, and as far as his body could take him and he could push his body pretty far. In fact his body seemed to be ready for it, he hadn't realized he was breathing as though he'd run a distance. He controlled that quickly as well, "I...have no regrets, bel homme."

He didn't, he'd changed, and he'd felt something and that was real enough for him. It was more than what he'd had in quite some time.

"I can probably get leave to return to Emprise du Lion as early as tonight. Sahrnia will need rebuilding," having regained his composure he turned to Zevran, there were ripples beneath the surface of his calm expression and a heat that was just beneath the winter in his eyes, "I owe you a service...so I'll do this for you. Good-bye..."

There was an urge to dart out of the room that was completely undignified so he resisted and walked calmly instead only pausing in the doorway just long enough, "thank you...for whatever it is worth."

"...the room, Michel." Humans and their dramatics, though it did startle Zevran out of his ill humor. That anyone could feel so much-

he'd seen it before in others with their lovers. Knew well what it meant. There was an opportunity here with Michel at the door, looking crushed behind his cool, blue eyes, flushed with emotions that neither of them cared to name. Zevran could not be what Michel wanted, whatever it was. An honest and open lover? One that gave ground to sentiment?

But that endearment made him flinch as much as his rapid movement; he knew well the actions of a man spurned. He'd endured them enough in his youth.

And even in this Michel was kind. Noble. What was he to make of that?

"...The room. Not- not Skyhold." The idea of this being done-

It should be a relief. It should be a weight from his shoulders- there were expectations here he could not play to. And yet-

"Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow. I may...be better company, then." If that was all Michel wanted, that was all he needed. "...If you ride with your ribs like that you are going to fall off and die and that- that would likely make someone in the hold sad, there would be wailing and gnashing of teeth and I wouldn't be able to sleep for the noise."

Michel was aware of the meaning, but he didn't know if he could leave Zevran alone on his bad days and he was equally uncertain if he could push down his own foolishness every time he saw the elf's face. The Chevalier had a limit, he liked to think his control over his behavior was absolute, but it clearly was not, past experience suggested otherwise.

And then Zevran was inviting him, telling him to come back, and Michel wasn't certain as to what point and purpose. A distraction to keep him from riding with his injured ribs and what other injuries he was presently ignoring? That wasn't quite right and the Chevalier knew it, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"If you are in a better disposition and I come..." Michel leaned against the frame of the door, lingering for a moment, "...what then? Will you be more amenable to these feelings, do you believe?"

Michel ran a hand through his hair contemplating to himself for a moment, trying to smother the heat rising from his chest. There was no reason for him to be angry and none of this was Zevran's fault, it wasn't his fault either.

"I'll come back tomorrow...and as many times as you like...you have my word, but I cannot promise you that I'll always be able to swallow my affections. I'll want to wrap you up in my arms, I'll want to find words of comfort for you, I'll want to be near you...that's the danger present in me staying here."

"I...I do not know. This is not something that I often experience." People wanting him- yes. People caring for him so keenly? That was new. That was frightening in it's newness, in it's bittersweet familiarity to something he had once and lost. No. Something he cut away viciously out of fear. Part of him never truly recovered and that same, ashen pit glimmered with new life every time Michel looked at him with such eyes, held him with his hands.

Were it only sex perhaps he would have been better able to bid him leave- to walk away. For it was on him to end this. Michel, clearly, could not.

And he could not make himself do so. Not for Michel's sake- not for his own. "If...if you can bear my confusion then- I will not tell you to swallow them."

Michel felt a strong desire to slump against the frame of the door, his body feeling boneless as Zevran relieved him. He had dozens of urges right now, but stifled all of them save for one. He found the will to move return to his legs as he approached the elf again, hand gently cupping one side of his face, letting his thumb stray to caress his cheek. If he was allowed to express his affection to a certain extent then he would.

"Of course I can...maybe we could navigate that confusion together, yes?" Maker knows Michel was clumsy at this sort of thing, he had nothing at all in his history to compare it to. Not even something to cut out of himself in order to spare him the pain. Michel had his lies, his regrets, and then there was his horse...but these events did not measure up to such an experience and so his confusion matched Zevran's, "it might be a good opportunity to get to know you, if you find that agreeable."

"I cannot promise anything." That he would ever be more than he is now- that if he improved he would change how he behaved around Michel. That he would, though the idea had him reeling away in mild revulsion, ever stop seeing his other lovers. Perhaps when he once more felt desirable to himself he might manage but- for now this. This small thing, the touch of Michel's hand, the warmth in his eyes. It terrified him in no small way.

Sentiment was a weakness.

But without he has been taken all the same. What good was distance? "...what would you wish to know?"

"I will not ask you to make any promises," he was certainly willing to let Zevran take all the time he needed to figure out what he wanted from this and to reconcile whatever personal troubles that were plaguing him now. If it turned out that Michel played no role or a detrimental role then there was no choice but to back off and find a way to cope in the aftermath. He hadn't realized how deeply the elf had gotten under his skin, how dangerous that was, how he was developing an addition that he had to curtail for Zevran's sake.

"Anything you would be comfortable telling me..." nothing that would stir up any current trauma, naturally, "...it can be small, just...anything..."

"Anything." There was much he could share, terribly little that had true weight to it- no. Quite a bit that had weight and much of it was terrible. His life had not been kind even from the beginning, before he was ever sold to the Crows. "...I was born in a brothel."

Michel spoke of his childhood after a fashion if not how he went from Alienage to Chevalier- Zevran could possibly offer a touch of the same. "Until I was purchased by the Crows; I was raised among the other elven children there."

Michel's eyes widened slightly, he was surprised, but not terribly surprised, knowing very well what happened to elves in cities and in alienages and how their deal was quite raw. He was also aware, now in hindsight, of what happened to children who lost their families as well. Michel could very well have been one, but he had somehow gotten lucky. Unfortunate children from the alienages, even ones like him that looked human, were young and desperate, not very worldly, but responsive to kindness. Slavers could be kind to lure in their targets, Michel had been similarly lured by Comte Brevin de Chalons, but the man had been an honest one and one of the few.

They were similar in some ways, but Michel simply had the advantage of dumb luck. He didn't know much about the Antivan Crows, other than what he'd heard about their recruitment processes and that it could be...a brutal game of survival against tasks, against peers. He suspected Zevran might have had to kill those he had known, perhaps at a young age, he could imagine all kinds of things and that certainly could not have made his life easier.

And, if Zevran's M.O. was anything to go by, there was probably a brainwashing method involved, of course one might say that of any order. Chevalier training forced one to think and act a certain way and do things a certain way in order to be an effective knight, it must have been the same for Zevran in order to be an effective assassin.

And then there was being raised in a brothel, it certainly explained some things...and there were things Michel didn't wish to contemplate...such as how young...no, he really didn't want to think about it.

"I...wish I knew the sort of delicate words to say..." Michel was very good about not looking at or treating Zevran with pity, if only because he could grasp at some of that suffering. He did, however, have a look of understanding and genuine interest about him, "...but I can listen."

"There is nothing delicate to say. It was what it was. As far as orphaned children might live it was not so terrible. Roof over my head, at least one meal a day if I was quick and the cooks were feeling kind, no one was permitted to touch us which is a fair deal better than might be said of other brothels in the same area." He shrugged. To put too much weight to it- that would be his undoing. "I was purchased by the crows when I was seven for three sovereigns. Not too terrible a price as I could not tell the pointy end of the dagger from the pommel. I didn't know what they were, only that it was meant to pay off my mother's debt."

Michel could tell that Zevran was trying to keep it light, but he knew there was nothing pretty or nice about being orphaned. Michel was also the sort of man who never looked back on his past with too much in the way of emotion as there was really nothing that could be done for it now. He could understand how Zevran might feel the same...except his past came back to haunt him, "it does not sound too different from the alienages in Orlais...with the exception of slavers as opposed to assassins."

"It was not so bad a life- do as you are told, do well in your training? Food, a roof over your head, and work when you know enough to be given your own contracts." He did not mention the torture, he did not mention Taliesin, nor the tattoos, nor the loss of those he had come to care for that could not keep up with the harsh training set forth by the Crows. "It could have been a great deal worse."

Michel was not an expert on the crows, but he was hardly a neophyte when it came to knowing what went on in such guilds. Word managed to get around, and it often got around in high places...aside from the Orlesian pastime of gossip all Michel needed to do was look at Zevran. He knew better than to assume growing up within such a guild was more than meals, training, and a roof...that was more military, with the occasional hazing, of course, but Michel had never been trained to steel his heart, though he kept his own well guarded for good reasons.

"I...suppose it could have," Michel didn't press for more, regardless, it was only what Zevran was willing to give him as he promised. He was glad that Zevran was simply engaging him, why should he ask for more than this.

"I lived with them and worked in the Guild until the fifth blight. Most everyone knows the rest of the tale." Smoothing over so many, many things but the details...the details he could not bear to recount. Not yet. It was difficult enough to explain to someone that knew him as well as those that saved him, to explain to anyone else felt like an insurmountable hill to climb. "After the Blight I traveled across Thedas, finding work, meeting interesting people; killing them, and being paid to do so."

"I was barely a man during the fifth blight...but I know as much as anyone else...and then there were the plays," not very accurate, at least they failed to capture Zevran's beauty in any way. At least not in the way that he saw the elf's beauty, everything was exaggerated, much to exaggerated. He wouldn't press for more, however, just this was enough, "...and then you made it here, all the way to the Inquisition."

"They actually put me in plays?" He would have thought them to pass over all but Jonas, Alistair, and perhaps Morrigan. Maybe Leliana but the rest of them- a dwarven drunkard berzerker, a possessed spirit healer, a Qunari lost and somewhat shamed, a war dog, a golem, and an Antivan assassin-

Well then again perhaps they made for a fine tale, being brought together to battle the blight. "I have spent the past decade cutting at the throat of the Crows. When they seemed to choose to take the threat I pose more seriously- I came here. Why not hide and do some good?"

"Yes...but the Zevran in the plays was a caricature. Nothing like the man before me...an oversimplified idea of you," as an elf and as an assassin, "it was painful to watch, if I am to be honest."

Fortunately Michel had better sources for his information other than satire of such a tremendous event in history. Anything to undermine such things and uplift Orlais, but that was politics.

"I cannot blame you for any of this, I am here for very similar reasons...I cannot return home. So I can understand...at least that much."

"I am surprised they made the attempt at all." Tentatively- Zevran moved to lean against Michel. Not that it had to mean anything, not that it meant anything other than he was cold, Michel was warm and solid and there. "I thought if I waited long enough they would let me be. Focus on other targets. More the fool I, it seems."

"It depends on who the sponsor is really and what they want," that's usually how plays were done in Orlais, it could be damning propaganda if the sponsor so chose, but if they wanted something historically accurate? Well, Her Radiance was usually happy to pour a fortune into anything she deemed to be intelligent.

Michel was momentarily lost in thought, not having noticed when Zevran leaned into him and he was slightly surprised given how things had been somewhat heated before. He was well relaxed though, fighting the urge to pick him up, both with Zevran's new reserves, and the state of his own injuries, still, he bundled him gingerly with his cloak.

He was at a loss for words, of course he didn't think Zevran a fool, there was nothing wrong with wanting to be left alone...it was the world they lived in, however, where the past was absolutely a haunting thing.

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