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

[nadasharillen]

It speaks volumes that she doesn't freeze or stiffen under the half-embrace. Even more so that she not only leans in, but there are only a few moments of hesitation before she gently extricates her lower hand to return the gesture.

"They've had worse on long hunts and not abandoned me yet."

She wiggles them. Or, at least, she thinks she does.

"...Although I've never done a long hunt in the mountains. On stone." She huffs out an amused breath through her nose. "Maybe you're right."

A long pause, and then, "Are you finished with the stars tonight? I wouldn't mind the company while I warm them."

[ombranera]

"Stone and sand. The worst places to be barefoot." He's tense under her arm for a moment before it passes. Before he accepts it with all the aching need in his chest for casual contact. Things done without intent or expectation. The cold of the air has sunk in deep enough that he too can't quite feel his bare toes...all the more reason to slip inside.

He tips his head back to stare out at the sky, tracing paths of familiar stars. "...I am. Let us find a fire to warm our feet. Perhaps we might even manage a bowl of stew if we look small and sad enough."

[nadasharillen]

"We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit." Another amused huff of air, "Unless it's cold out and we're hungry, in which case--" She gives him her best halla doe eyes. Soft, large, winsome, full of vaguely injured innocence. The look comes attached to a soft pout... and crumples almost immediately into laughter.

"Come lethallin--they owe me at least one round for fixing the mugs after the last time the Chargers came through together." The familiar term dropped easily from her lips.

Nahariel remembered what she had wanted, when she had climbed to watch the stars. If she had any belonging to give now, she would.

[ombranera]

"Should you turn such eyes on me, I would be helpless to your desires." He rests a hand to his own chest- all sighing, swooning dramatics. How could anyone not be moved by such a face? Such a laugh?

The word- it means something that ticks at the back of his mind, but he stands with her without question. An endearment by tone- and that is enough for him. Perhaps another day he will ask after it. "They are a terribly rowdy bunch, are they not?"

backtags like a fiend

[nadasharillen]

"Terribly," she agrees emphatically. "But it's... nice. They're full of life and energy, and all that I've met have been kind--if rough around the edges. And fixing mugs is something I can do while keeping an eye on Sina. I'm grateful for the distraction."

She turns to walk toward the stairs that would take them to the tavern, and then stops to look over her shoulder at him. "Sometimes distractions are nice, even when you know that's what they are." Her eyes twinkle mischievously.

[We can leave it here and say 'yay tavern, have a quiet drink in the warm!' or can thread that out too. I don't mind! Just depends on whether or not you want to do old-timey threading. <3]