Did I go at it wrong? Did I go intentionally to destroy me?

[ombranera]

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.

Comments

[ombranera]

"...You know what that sounds like, Leliana? It sounds much like how we, as Crows, were taught to harden our hearts for the kill. While your purpose is different and more noble...I spent much of the year with Jonas unlearning that. You spent time in Lothering doing much the same." Not a condemnation, he is truly too sober and too weary for it, but the comment is one worth making. They have both been in such a situation before, he worked out of it as best he could on his own. Leliana seemed better suited to moving forward with that conviction but-

The world spins on and people change.

He simply never expected her to change back.

"Less the 'greater good' and more 'the benefit of the crows' but- It is familiar enough." What she makes of it is for her to decide. He? He is sipping wine and staring out into the clearing where the crows- no. His little birds had been training. "I need to be something they can depend on. Something that can lead them to being more than Crows. When I left...all I needed was the ability to choose for myself what I wanted. Teaching them that? Has been difficult."

[fightingale]

Her smile has faded away, though it had not been much to begin with. They never are, these days. There is too much weight.

"If our enemies have hearts hardened and prepared to take any course of action, then there must be one of us prepared to take the same strikes. To counter them, to stop them short. If we only ever wait for them to move first and are constantly left floundering, then what hope do we have of gaining the upper hand? What if we show them the hand of mercy, only to be betrayed, or have them strike back against us with renewed vigour?" Leliana shakes her head. "Necessity drives me. I... I was able to enjoy a good deal of naivety travelled with you all during the Blight, but those were more innocent times.'

To think, that she would ever think of the Blight in such a way, and she shakes her head again. "Judge me, if you must. Condemn me, even, but I will do whatever must be done to ensure the Inquisition's success." There is no heat, and no anger. A quiet acceptance, really. She has known this a long time.

Thinking for a moment, Leliana just leans back and looks at the sky. The stars are starting to show in the paintwork of dark purples and deep pinks that reach across the sky, each one a reminder of the Maker's grace, of what it is that it is so important to fight for. "How well do you know them?"

It is not the question of a Spymaster assessing, no. It is more a consideration. "The better you know them, the better you can read their hearts, make the connection that they need to understand."

[ombranera]

"I do not judge, Leliana. You know that well enough- nor do I condemn you." Again, she knows why he cannot and will not say or feel such things. What he admits, though, is far more rare and weighty. Something he does not care to say and yet? Must say again, reaching over to curl his fingers around her hand. "I fear for you. Living like that-"

It can kill a man. It can destroy a soul. It is easy to twist things about to justify such harsh action before or after, they all watched Jonas take such strides at the tail end of the Blight. They all had their opinions, they all voiced or held them as needed. Zevran held his more often than not- for who ever bothered to care what an elf might think? No one that would stop in their work simply because he asked. Leliana...perhaps it is foolish to think his fears or concerns would change her course. What weight and worth do his thoughts have in the Inquisition?

Precious little.

"I would not see you lose yourself to this." No more than he would lose himself to be whatever it is his new crows need.

[fightingale]

People do not reach for the Nightingale. They barely reach for Leliana, either. She is rigid and upright, keeps herself layered over in sharp wit and chainmail and leather. Idle contact is no longer something she tends towards, and then there is Alistair with his shoulder knocks and Zevran with his leaning, and both of them she can endure well enough. Someone reaching for her hand is unfamiliar, and she has to fight the urge to lean back, to evade. Attacks come before affection, or affection can be a mask for an attack. She tenses with the contact, before she reminds herself to ease off.

Sometimes I think myself already lost. One of the myriad things she cannot say, here, and she lapses into a long silence.

"So long as I have the faith and the trust of those dearest to me,"she starts, gently squeezing Zevran's hand in return, "I cannot be lost."

[ombranera]

That is damning enough. There was a time ten years ago she would not tense but to shove him away with a hand on his face for his leering and teasing. This paranoid tension is as familiar as it is heartbreaking, more than enough for him to turn their hands about to entwine their fingers. Their callouses slot into place like a key in a lock; similar weapons, similar blood on their skin. "It is easy to tell yourself that when you see no end. To bury yourself in the work and shave off bits of your soul until there is nothing left for you to lose. One more mission, one more job."

He tips his head against her shoulder.

"You find comfort where you can, in doing your work well in willing bodies, in letters and games of chance. Use that to tell yourself that it is worthwhile so long as you have this; that a laugh or a game of cards makes you still human while you hand out pieces until you are hollow. Yes?"

[fightingale]

I am already hollow, she could tell him. That a year with Jonas and her scant time in the Lothering Chantry were not enough to undo what Marjolaine had taught her, and what Dorothea and then Justinia needed her to be. She does not. She had hoped to be here for her friend, and instead he is making attempts to pry into the state of her soul and know that which she would sooner remained unseen.

Leliana remains silent, for a time, allowed him to take her hand and to tilt his head against her shoulder, and keeps her gaze focused on some idle point in the descending darkness.

"Let it be, Zevran," comes her response, slow and calm and even. "I am glad to grant my services to the Inquisition. Let that be enough."