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

[lettersfromhome]

That almost brings a laugh to her lips, though it dies halfway. "Yes. Though if we'd known it was a golem, I doubt many of us would have braved going near it," she admits, the corner of her mouth curling for a moment. She can still picture it standing there in the town square, as she lifted Rosalie in her arms to place flowers about its stone head for the festival.

But her smile fades. "You saw what became of it. We'd heard rumors of Darkspawn in the wilds, but it seemed so far away. The army would turn it, surely. Arl Eamon would send forces to protect us. We never..."

Her voice falters a moment, and she swallows hard.

"We were completely unprepared when they came. Surrounded by friends and family, there at home, we thought we were safe."

[ombranera]

"...Does it ever return?" It does not make sense, that he asks, that he thought he deserved to know. Never before had he thought himself truly safe, there'd always been that awareness. That fear. But here-

Here he'd been comfortable. Felt secure. He had assumed he would see the signs. That should the Crows try to take him he would know them for what they were before they could make the attempt- that others would be able to protect him as well. "Feeling...safe. Does that ever return?"

Or is it lost forever?

He'd only just begun to settle into that sentiment- that damnable sensation of belonging. Of having a home.

[lettersfromhome]

Lies, reassurances, all seem unworthy even were she inclined towards them. Her lips tighten as she takes a breath, eyes lifting skyward for a moment. The view really is spectacular.

"Not all at once. Some nights are better than others." And some nights every noise feels like a warning, nerves rasping raw and on edge. Slowly her gaze lowers, another deep breath taken. "I've found keeping busy helps. Exhaustion means fewer nights awake to contemplate. But it's gotten better. It never goes away entirely, but..."

A happier prospect might have encouraged him to reconsider, but she can't do that. She almost wishes she could, if that's what it would take to convince him.

[ombranera]

The honesty is worth more than he could hope. Platitudes, comforting, soft, hollow words he has had his fill of- when all one is fed is empty sweetness one becomes sick. It hurts, the weight of it cutting through that saccharine kindness to sit in his stomach like a hunk of stale bread. But it is real. And it is honest.

He does not know if he has the right- but he leans in, resting his forehead against her shoulder. A level of contact they've never before have but- the wind is cold and she is warm in so many ways, radiating a strength he would steal for himself if given half a chance. "I suspect this is not one of my better nights."

[lettersfromhome]

And it does not matter how new it is, how little they know. Whatever might have been. Maker knows the world could use a little more kindness before propriety or whatever else might hold people at bay.

It's instinctive. One hand lifts to cup against the back of his head, stroking soothingly before holding him there as best she can. Propriety be damned. He's hurting. That's all that matters.

"They will come. If you let them. I promise you that."

Perhaps it is a pain she can never truly understand. But he cannot frighten her away with whatever darkness he has faced. She's seen enough to know how ugly despair is, and she will not turn away and leave him to it.

[ombranera]

He shudders at the press, chokes back a soft noise. Something wounded, something weary, something unbecoming- but when has he ever cared about such things? Never. Such comfort isn't granted to people like him- they drink or fight or fuck their way through these darker spaces. Hands held and hair petted, it is not something he is granted.

Not something to which he is accustomed.

Selfish creature that he is, he soaks it in for as long as it's offered. "How do I let them?"

If he can learn this- if he can learn to not be so lost, to not be so achingly numb- he will do so in a heartbeat.

[lettersfromhome]

Her teeth worry her lower lip, unseen, her brow knitting. "I don't know that there's an easy answer," she admits.

She hadn't known one. She remembers sitting on the back of a wagon as it rattled over the road, near catatonic, refusing to react to anything at all. Everything had been a faint noise, a blur of gray and brown. Nothing had felt real, anymore.

Then she'd felt little Rosalie grasping desperately at her hand. Don't leave us too.

"My sister and brother were what pulled me free." Her hand stills, settling warmly against his back, and the ruff of fur now tucked around him where they sit. "I saw them one day just watching me. Frightened. They were but children, then. They couldn't survive that madness alone. I had to endure, for them."

Her eyes trail downwards, letting that sink in for a moment. "Is there no one you would choose to live for?"

[ombranera]

"Alistair." He doesn't have to think before the name's on his lips- it is the crack that crumbles the dam as little by little, more names trickle out. "Leliana, Keiran- the Crows we liberated, River."

He hitches a soft breath, mumbling. "You? Or- I do not know more than that. People know me but they've no reason to need me."

A fine diversion, an excellent blade. He is- was- both of these things. What more could anyone wish of him? Alistair is the only one that might need him. Kieran and Leliana might miss him.

[lettersfromhome]

Later, she'll revisit her own place on that list with puzzlement, curiosity perhaps. But now hardly seems the time.

"Well, I need you." Her eyebrows raised with a very faint curl at the corner of her lips. "To keep me sharp at chess, test my wits and my patience all at once. Whoever could do as well as you at either?"

Being needed can dictate so much of a person's life, she can't argue that. But there's the mercenary, utilitarian way he means the word, and there's what she thinks of as need. A requirement for more than just survival, but living. Smaller joys and complications that made it worth living.

[ombranera]

Before he can ask 'for what' for she has enough in her life without his foolishness, whatever diversion he might offer- and she answers. Nothing with his skin, nothing with his knives- a different definition of need.

How is that at all something she needs- let alone from him? He frowns faintly against her shoulder before sitting back to look her in the face.

"I could offer a list of names but I feel attempting to do so at this moment would be terribly unwise."

[lettersfromhome]

There's a faintly derisive noise at that, and a swallow to push back any earlier slips of composure. "You haven't completely lost your senses, then."

But the smile she finds is warm, even as her brow knots. "None of them would be you. They would not have your laugh. Your talent for remembering and capturing the heart of people with a brushstroke. Your tenacity and your...dubious sense of charm." One eyebrow lifts.

"They could be emulated but never be you. And if the world would not be poorer for its loss, mine would be."

[ombranera]

"I-" What does one say to that? He has never before been faced with this level of concern, this depth of sentiment from anyone other than Alistair and even then? It is framed as a joke or one or both of them are not sober enough at the time to make a thing of it. Here he is painfully sober and it is Mia in all her hard edged compassion that cracks him open, no to peer, but to pour in warmth.

What does he say to this?

"I...owe you a game." Chess. Chess is safe. "I fear I missed a few while I was away."

[lettersfromhome]

Let it be chess, then, if he likes. The fact that he's offering does a little to ease those hard lines at the corners of her eyes, and she reaches absently to smooth a bit of fur at the front of the cloak.

"You do at that. I intended to wait and see if you'd rejoin me of your own volition," she replies, not unkindly. "And I realize I'm not the only one who desi--"

Stop. Rephrase.

"Who would request your company," she finishes after a moment, her mouth thinning. "Maker knows I can keep myself well occupied until you feel up to it."

[ombranera]

"Ah-ha!" He brings a hand up to poke at her shoulder (were it Isabela he'd poke her collar but that is a touch too close to the bosom and he is, honestly, trying to mind the line with Mia), and what uncertainty and weariness that had called him to the battlements fell away somewhat. "I knew it."

She wants him. For his chess game, of course, but that is something he can take.

"Oh I imagine so, mia Bella, in all sorts of fascinating ways."

[lettersfromhome]

And oh, the look she gives him at that. "Don't you even--"

Too late. It's done. Zevran is nearly back in his unbearable form once more, that momentary triumph in his voice. It's far better than how she found him, though that doesn't stop her exasperation with him rising with a weary sigh. "Maker's breath, must you? Here I was nearly feeling fondly towards you."

Which is as close to a lie as it comes. The fondness is there, and she is not entirely put out by his shenanigans. He doesn't mean them, after all, and she doesn't blame him for it. How could she? They all cope with loss and pain in their own ways, do they not?

She refuses to encourage him, however.

[ombranera]

He evens. Unrepentantly, he evens. How can he not when she hands him such things on a silver platter and this- perhaps- is what she means. This is certainly worth hanging on for awhile longer, when the void doesn't call at him so deeply, when the numbness doesn't shake him quite so much.

Not warm just yet- but not numb. He'll take it.

"Perhaps I will desist if you trounce me soundly in our next match, yes? And yes. I must. It is what I live for, Mia, your exasperated sighs and your clucking tongue." Without them he'd probably have fallen away nights ago.

[lettersfromhome]

Such things could be relied on, small measures of humanity in hopelessness. Even annoyances could remind them that the world was not so vast and empty, that just within reach there might be someone.

Someone with a growing desire to wring his pretty elven neck, perhaps.

"I'll thank you to find some other measure of hope beyond what my tongue may cluck at, lest I turn to pecking instead." Mia's eyes narrow. "And I'm not fool enough to think that winning or losing will in the slightest affect your insatiable desire to mock me so."

[ombranera]

"Peck away, dear Mia." There is more than one meaning- he even goes so far as to tilt his head to present his cheek, smirk wide and bright and closer to how he is normally- not that sad, hollow thing she'd seen on the battlements. This feels...closer to right.

Closer to real.

Not even Blood Mages can mimic the perfection that is Mia's scowl. "It is not mockery if I am sincerely interested, is it?"

[lettersfromhome]

"Were you capable of sincerity in such matters."

There's a stilted, strangled noise in the back of her throat that she refuses to let escape as Zevran offers up his cheek, and she shakes her head stiffly. No, that is unfair. He's allowed to make his jokes and flirt and make light, and she will respond only as she knows how.

Her tongue presses to the inside of her cheek briefly. "I've told you before, you'd find me a bitter disappointment."

Another woman might have, fallen for his charm head over heels and tumbled into bed with him as easy as that. She can believe it, has seen it happen before. And Zevran will find any number of people in Skyhold who can be a warm body in a bed for him, a fun night.

That's not a space for her to occupy in anyone's narrative. Why else would he persist if not for the fun of it, to laugh and be merry as he does?

[ombranera]

"It is entirely possible to be sincerely interested without being sincerely interested. This is where common fails." He sighs and tips his face back to her properly- after the kindness she has shown, the raw, ugly honesty he has offered? Perhaps something gentler is required.

No, there is no perhaps about it. He owes her this.

"I am sincerely interested in your company, however you see fit to offer it. I am not, nor do I think you are, sincerely interested in falling into bed. Well, that is a lie. I would bed you if that was what you wanted. You are lovely and there is a fire in you I find enthralling. But." He reaches up to take her hand and squeeze it, gently. "You do not wish for such things and...as I am being honest. I want that more than I want a night in your bed. This. Whatever it is."

[lettersfromhome]

"Whatever this is." The words repeat on her tongue, though she's still not sure she's heard him correctly. She'd expected more innuendo, more sly winks and nudges, something resembling the banter she's come to expect.

Instead Zevran has hold of her hand, and there's something like understanding there. What this is is some strange combination of protectiveness and affection, racking squarely up against every solid wall she's built for herself. For a moment she feels all of sixteen again, wary and confused and half of her wanting to tear her hand away and flee. But after the moment passes her fingers squeeze back, her throat clearing.

"Well I'm relieved to know you haven't a name for it, either. If you had it pinned down before I did, I fear there'd be no living with you."

[ombranera]

"The closest I can come to it is Amicire- but even that is not entirely right." Platonic, enduring affection, well. It is platonic but it is more teasing than what he'd normally consider- but less so than what he has with Maxwell. Putting a word on this would make it simpler to understand, but...

It would also take some of the delightful mystery out of it. "I consider you a friend. A Gircio- one that I tease but have no true intent to bed or kiss, yes? But a friend none the less. Such things are a bit vague and broad in common."

[lettersfromhome]

"Such pretty words you have for every occasion." Her composure returns to her by degrees as she lifts an eyebrow, her fingers still wound around his. "Such that you have so specific a term, just to spite me."

But the corner of her mouth curls upwards. Her gaze lowers thoughtfully.

"In truth, I have very few friends. It is easy enough to know people in passing, and no doubt you have a word for that as well. But I am not easy to befriend. I know that. And if you consider me such, then it is a small thing to endure your futile attempts at charm." And that smirk curled a little higher.

[ombranera]

"I should say the same. There are some terms you have in common that all mean bu one thing in Antivan." It is slightly baffling. But he is adjusting- the constant travel helps.

By now, were he truly attempting to mock her, he would kiss the back of her hand. But this? He thinks he would like to keep this for a little while longer. This thoughtful quiet.

"Socio." He offers without missing a beat. "Those you know in passing and speak to kindly if only to keep the peace. Most often used for business partners and mothers in law."

[lettersfromhome]

"Socio."

The language has a music to it. Zevran's naturally pleasant voice helps of course, but it really is beautiful all on its own. One would have to adapt the accent to do it justice, of course. Her own clipped Ferelden accent makes it sound stiff.

Mia frowns thoughtfully.

"And Gircio is for 'flirtatious friendship'? What of Amicire, the first one you mentioned?"