faderift | 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

"...Why are the handsome men always such asses, mm?" He leans back- away from the ledge, propping himself against the stone with his hands- attention now thoroughly focused on this handsome ass that is prompting him with spite. It's been a fine motivator for the past decade.

Perhaps it should serve him now.

"I usually take ten for every cut they manage." Whatever had been at the stronghold- save the six he recruited for himself- is no more. "...I owe them at least a hundred after this."

"You'll find none of them down there," Martel observes, with a loose gesture over the edge. "Not a solid hundred, at any rate, even if you bounced."

What a visual. He almost lets the remark about handsome men being asses pass unremarked upon, but he is nothing if not incapable of leaving well enough alone, and so, after a few moments of consideration,

"I was once told it was because handsome men with titles don't think we need personalities."

He cannot help it. The humor so black, so bleak? He crackles a laugh. The wind snatches it from him as fast as he can make the sound- but it is there. Something bright and biting and alive. "True enough."

Up here, now. There are fewer still. Later there may be more. They found their way in once, after all.

"Considering my experience of such men? That is not entirely inaccurate." Hobbies do not a fully rounded individual make.

"I told her my personality is appalling and she should be glad of the title attached," he says, wryly, "and she very nearly married me."

There is more to that story - a great deal more, and a great deal of pain that is not Martel's. But it wasn't without its moments worth repeating, lingering hints of affection that don't suggest he carries a torch. He doesn't. It would be better, maybe, if he did. Or at least - a more poignant sort of awful, instead of the bleak, mundane callousness that was the least unique part of all he did wrong.

"I understand her husband to be a very good man. Your guess is as good as mine as to what that means for his company."

"Women are strange and contrary creatures in that way." Tell them to not, and they will not only find a way to do so, but to find a way to make the other party partly at fault with all the grace and innocence of a chantry sister. Especially when men and titles are concerned. Most end up marrying and hiring someone like Zevran to tend to the shallow, lovely ass.

Sometimes he gets a good fuck out of it. More often than not? A great deal of coin.

"That he can hold a conversation well and knows how to use his mouth where and when it counts."

Martel's smile is small and wry and he thinks strange and contrary had been what he loved in her, when he persuaded himself that his love was more than it was. When he had tried, terribly hard, to love her in the way she had faultlessly loved him.

"I don't think anyone marries a knight for his conversational skills. The other, perhaps."

"They certainly do not wed them for their swordplay." Ah, innuendo. That he could find it in himself to spare any is nothing short of miraculous. But if it meant getting one over on a noble ass? He would make a most valiant attempt.

He laughs, timed just perfectly right to avoid choking on a mouthful of something that would absolutely burn going down the wrong way. It's a terrible innuendo, but he'll take it for the small victory that it is, all the same.

"It is not the sword, in my experience, that defines the reception one receives in a lady's bed."

This is an appropriate conversation to be having with someone still on the ledge.

"Oh but it is, simply not the sword most knights are known for." this isn't at all sane, it isn't at all appropriate- and that perhaps is why it fits best. It makes light. It twists about expectations and, perhaps, reminds him that there are things worth kicking about for. Like knights and deflating their egos.

"No," he says, arch, amused, "that would be the sword to which I referred. And there are few enough women in the world pleasured to satisfaction with just a sword."

As it were.

A noble, not only keeping time but rolling the innuendo along? Give Zevran a moment, this is highly unusual. But he crackles a soft laugh all the same and continues the point. "A tongue may be wielded as expertly as any blade, my friend, in many ways and many places. Though it tends to take far more skill than merely thrusting a blade about."

The roll of his shoulders follows his laugh--

"Well," he says, philosophical, "I have few enough redeeming features. It rather obliges a man to work a little harder that his companion for the evening might not have cause to regret her generosity."

Martel, the renegade, the man who'll go down because he knows his charming personality isn't going to be what she remembers fondly.

"If one is skilled enough it need not be work." Why not enjoy it? Especially if it leaves the lady well pleased and well humored come morning?

An arch glance sideways--

"Has no one ever told you to do what you love?"

"With vigor and enthusiasm." Zevran's grin is wide and wicked.

Upon consideration, Martel slides the flask back towards him.

Zevran accepts it with a salute, taking a less cautious swig than he had at first. He was sitting on a ledge. What fear ought he have of poison?

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

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