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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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He doesn't complain. He's far from exhausted, his eyes tracing invisible patterns across the ceiling, but he's there. He's not moving. And he relaxes, slightly, as Zevran does, as if he was waiting for the cord to snap the whole time and he finally understands that it's not going to.
"I'm not really sure it's yours to do anything with," Gavin replied, his voice quiet. He didn't know the answer, really. He'd never known what to do with people worried about him. But that didn't stop him worrying about Zevran.
"They're going to be afraid and they're going to be concerned, because they care about you, Zevran." He carefully did not say I. This was a hypothetical conversation about other people, after all.
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"Why do you have to?" Zevran's hair smells far more like him than it ever has before - sweat and blood rather than oil and perfume - and Gavin would never say it, but he almost likes it. He feels horrible, yes, guilty, yes, and his heart aches for Zevran, but - he still liked it.
(He never claimed to be a decent person.)
"It's their fear. It's their concern. The whole point is that it is theirs. Take what you want from it, and... leave the rest."
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"You must know that's not the intention," Gavin murmured, shifting a little so that it wasn't quite so uncomfortable, now that Zevran was easing up a little bit.
"No one wants to put an even greater burden on you, Zevran." He didn't, at least. He knew how ridiculous his own feelings were. He would be happy to never burden anyone else with them. "They don't show up to force you to make them feel better."
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Did...
Help. Somewhat.
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There was a long pause as he shifted, accidentally digging his elbow back in again.
"You could make a list. 'Things that will help me more than you making puppy dog eyes at me'."
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The last was truly frustrating him in regards to Alistair.
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He couldn't help that he was made entirely of corners.
"You could put it into the door with a dagger, just to make sure that people knew you were serious." Zevran shifting around made Gavin do so a little more effectively, which ended up with his face planted back again in Zevran's hair. "But it will probably be most effective if you put something on that list about what they can do instead."
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"I knew I should have brought a bribe," He lamented, nose nuzzling into his hair. "I don't have food but I'm sure I could share an absurd story or two."
The Crows... that would be a different question. That was something he would want to ask Alistair about, before even touching that subject, even around it.
"I once met a man who thought he was the king of the Rams... did I tell you about that one?"
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