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

"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.

"...What else would you know?" Easier to talk when he was not looking at Michel, easier to think when he was warm and tucked close and without the true weight of expectation. He did not know what it was Michel wished of him, what he wanted. His company, the Chevalier said, but that-

That cannot be the whole of it. only Alistair could stand him for so long and Alistair did not wish to fuck him. It must tie back to that. How could it not?

"If you let me go on I might ask you about the little things like what the ocean looks like, what your perfect day would be, books you've read, what you would do all day if money was no object, things you've enjoyed about places you've traveled?...I could go on like this for a time," silly things, really, but when getting to know someone it was all about the small things...the small unimportant thing that mattered as much as anything else. Michel had no experience in this, that was true, it had taken another elf to point out just how unromantic his heart was, especially for a knight.

So up until now he pleased Zevran in a way that he knew made his companion happy, but Michel didn't need it. Enjoyed it profusely, yes, but talking with Zevran in the past without sex on the table had been just as satisfying, warmed him to his bones just as much.

"...I will say something- you will say something." It felt less like confession and more like an exchange, that way. It made it something he could bear rather than offering over anything that might leave him vulnerable- but curled close in Michel's cloak, cheek resting against his shoulder, he could not help but feel somewhat safe. If only for the knowledge that anyone that would come would have to come through both Alistair and a Chevalier.

"If you like...and you're welcome to ask me questions as well if it helps," Michel didn't think it should be limited to Zevran, that all of the details should rest entirely on his shoulders. All the better to take that sense of vulnerability out of the picture, preferring his companion to feel stronger with him, not weaker. And truly, there was nothing getting in this room that did not first find it's way through at last a few warriors...Michel was adept in dealing with assassins given his former position. To spare Zevran from that pain? It was a worthy cause to give his life for if need be. Some habits died hard, particularly for a Chevalier.

"...if money and security was no object- I would spend a day in Rivain- on the beach where I might enjoy the sun, the seafood, and the people. It need not be Carnivale for there to be a colorful celebration- it need only be a good haul for the fishing boats. The music, the dancing, the wine flowing...it is a fine way to spend a few days." He tentatively looped an arm around Michel's waist- more for the sentiment it might betray than the ribs he knew were likely cracked. He should see a healer for those.

That he had not was a point of concern.

That it was a point of concern was a point of greater concern still. "What of you? How would you spend much the same?"

Michel was remarkably good at ignoring his ribs and his internal injuries, he knew enough about pain to know what sort of injuries were a threat to his life and what sort of injuries were not. He would see the healers in time, but as his wounds did not threaten his life, or his ability to move forward, then they were not a priority for him. It was more pleasing and distracting that Zevran's arm was wrapped around his waist, his own arm wound gingerly around Zevran's shoulder...it was very pleasant. His wounds were nothing.

If Rivain were not so close to Antiva Michel would probably help Zevran out with that little dream, it didn't seem impossible for a few days, but the Crows made it difficult, "Hmm...I have seen very little outside of Orlais, I suppose I would like to see as much of Thedas as possible...take a ship from the Waking Sea all the way up to the Colean Sea...maybe chart some uncharted territory."

Comfortable. It was comfortable. It almost felt familiar save in every way in which it was not. But that- that ran the risk of cutting too close to old wounds long since healed or at least ignored so they might fester in peace. But for the moment this was acceptable. Perhaps even enjoyable. Better not to think on it, or to question it. Simply let it be. "Have you ever seen the Ocean?"

Perhaps he was letting himself fall into false sense of security, but with Zevran's comfort becoming infections, Michel allowed himself the opportunity to comb his fingers through the elf's hair--well cared for, gold spun, like silk to the touch and he enjoyed touching tremendously. At the question he glanced up at the ceiling thoughtfully, "no. The Waking Sea is a rather large bod of water, but it is no ocean...the water is cold and foreboding, all mist and grey, plenty of rain. Just how blue is the water...I've always been a bit curious...is it warm, is it inviting, can you swim without worrying whether or not you'll die from prolonged submersion?"

There was a stillness that overcame Zevran at the first pass of Michel's fingers. He had been, for lack of a better word, wallowing and had not had the time to comb or oil it as he would otherwise; and normally such touching comes mid or after a thorough ravishment- or in a bath. Idle, possessive gestures such as this brought to mind another man, another hand.

But it was not possessive. It was...appreciative. The moment passed and he leaned into it, enjoying the contact. Allowing it. "It is not quite so warm as the hotsprings- but near the shore in the hight of summer? The clear waters of Antiva are as balmy and enticing a thing as any of it's lovely whores. Further out to the ocean proper it becomes cooler, but not frigid. It is a deep blue- like the sky at twilight, or the purest cut of sapphire."

His hair was as glorious to the touch as it had ever been, and as Michel might have mentioned before, such things usually went beneath the threshold of his notice. Granted Michel kept himself tidy, it was an exercise in military training, but even he looked unshaven and a bit unkempt. There was no call for ceremony, not while he was tucked against the Chevalier, underneath his cloak.

As long as the contact was allowed Michel would continue to run his fingers through Zevran's hair, tuck wayward strands carefully behind his ears, simply play idly in what was offered to him, "almost makes me want it all the more what with the images you paint."

"You would luxuriate in the sands of Antiva- while they may be hot enough to bake a loaf of bread come noon in the early morning or, more likely, the late evening? Are much like the warm embrace of a lover, the water just cool enough to take the heat of the day from you. Have you ever experienced true humidity? When the air is thick with water and spice like a sauna?" Here and now it was safe to let some of the ache show through his voice- Ferelden was far from home, the mountains, the chill, the snow- he was not made for such things.

The heat, the humid grasp of Antiva's coast, the glittering jewel of his city, with the danger and the darker shadows even among the beautiful lights come night- he missed it keenly. Ached for what he would never have. Not so long as the crows lived.

"I'll remember not to luxuriate in the middle of the day lest I burn terribly...but lover's embrace does sound pleasant after spending a year in the icy grasp of Emprise du Lion. There are a few places in Orlais that are warm...not the same kind of getaway however," one would have to go all the way to the Forbidden Oasis to find such hidden paradises, and even then they were not always guaranteed to be safe. He felt very sympathetic, however, to Zevran's plight as a man used to warmth...and to have his home taken from him? He could understand the ache in that, there were times he missed Val Royeaux with equal intensity. He dipped his head down a bit, nosing the top of his companion's head affectionately.

"What I would not give for proper baths, here. The hot springs are wonderful but- a great tiled mosaic, fonts frothing the water, rooms for steam, tables for a good oiling- it would be enough to tempt the nobility and large enough for the gentry. Had we only the coin to spare." He sighed, curling deeper against Michel's side, growing maudlin. "Fresh shrimp, spices- clothing of silk that comes in more than two colors, good, proper leather, wine that tasted of the earth and sky that raised the grapes, women with their gossamer gowns and teasing veils- men working the docks without shirts, glistening in the sun..."

"Poor bel homme..." Michel soothed warmly into his companion's hair, "at least now I know what I should get for you in the future, a proper bath."

He sounded quite serious about it, and to be honest some of those things were not beyond his reach to acquire for Zevran, it was nice to have ideas about things that he enjoyed. Of course he knew the elf enjoyed Antivan leather, Michel enjoyed it too, a gift they could both get use of--shrimp, silks, spices, and wine? Could be brought to Skyhold on special occasions. The men and women and atmosphere were not things that were so easily captured...perhaps one day.

"You cannot bring an entire Antivan Bathhouse to Skyhold on a whim, Michel." Zevran mumbled, unaware of the Chevalier's other intent. Aside from the bright, strange, surreal moment that had been wintersend and his chosen birthday, and perhaps tokens from Alistair- he was not given things. Certainly not to remind him of home. Certainly not to spoil him. That was not done. "I likely need a proper soak, honestly. The washbasin is not sufficient for how long I spend lounging about here."

Lounging, not wallowing. He did not wallow.

"You are right, that would be unrealistic, my house would be a more suitable place," and he hadn't thought about that place in quite some time, it was a construction with it's secure, beautiful walls and a bed that he slept in. It had not meant much more to him than that, honestly. Though a few creature comforts? Michel did not see the harm in this every now and then, there was plenty of ugliness...the world could use some colorful silks, "No? If there's anything I can do for you in the way of a proper soak you can ask me."

"...your what?" He blinked and frowned into the middle distance before pulling back enough to peer up at Michel. Whatever could he be thinking? There were thoughts, he could hear them- much like he could hear Alistair's eyebrows when they were having feelings but this was less in the eyebrows and more in the faint consideration in MIchel's lilting voice. "It is too crowded more often than not."

Normally not a concern but- with how he felt right now? "What I would not give even for a copper tub."

But he could not ask for such a thing.

"House...?" Michel offered in a questioning tone, though granted even he forgot he'd had such a thing having spent little time there at all and wondered if it was still his and still standing. Maybe. What did it matter at the moment, if there was time later then he might check the state of his property and if it was still in good standing he might consider adding structural attachments.

For now he continued to listen to Zevran's pressing needs, a copper tub was hardly a bath house, it was actually manageable, "hmmm...if you had a copper tub where would you put it?"

Michel glanced around Zevran's room curiously, yes, his thoughts were indeed rather loud, but he kept his tone conversational.

"That noble manor you would not know from a hole in the ground?" It could be scathing but- it was confounding more than anything else. A manor of his own was a wild dream he knew he would never have- such things were not granted elves in any city. That Michel might even deign to infer that he might change his own property for the whims of an elf he did not know that well.

The implications were rife and Zevran was adrift once more, uncertain in so many ways. Asking about the tub had him blinking. "...you are not purchasing me a tub, Michel."

"Hm? That's possibly true...I've probably slept in it slightly more than I have seen Val Chevin," which is to say that Manor, at least, was closer to Val Royeaux and that he'd probably slept in it a handful of times after his appointment to the position of Champion. Then he was on guard around the clock, "...a small chateau..."

Small, but he'd not dreamed of such things living in the alienages, no one did, it was a life he wanted to see made available to everyone. Part of his reasons for supporting the Empress even though she did not take the fast track on such issues. Orlais could truly be the greatest country in the world if it did the one thing no other country dared to dream.

And yes, he would certainly change it for Zevran, he could tear down the walls of the drawing, dining, and ante rooms and reimagine it into a gallery for Zevran. He could bust apart the baths on the bottom floor and transform it into this Antivan image for Zevran's pleasure...what else was he going to do with it? It was an empty space that he'd once shared with a horse and little more. It was probably crawling with ivy by now.

"Ah? But they have such fine copper tubs in Orlais, claw footed ones...I understand some have been imbued with Dwarven mechanisms to fill and purify on their own. I have never seen it myself, personally," Michel said tilting his head casually to the side, "if you insist."

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

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