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.

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"...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."

He could see those gears turn. Could consider the weight of them, the bent to Michel's thoughts. He'd seen them before on dreamy, sated Antivan nobles that thought him precious if only for the night. Many of them were dead now, of course, but the look was the same. Zevran's skin crawled to see it on Michel's face.

"No." He leaned away, untangling himself from Michel's cloak. "I- no. Whatever kindness you think that might be? No. I am not to be bought."

Even if he were- the cost of such a tub was far more than he was worth. Zevran knew with a visceral certainty how much could be paid for him. Down to the last adrini; how much one might spend for his time for an hour, a night, or a year. A lifetime.

At first Michel looked surprised as Zevran withdrew from him, not quite understanding what was happening until it sank into his consciousness as to what the other man thought his intentions were. That surprise was touched by a very rare expression that Michel was usually very good at keeping off of his face so that his opponents couldn't take it for weakness. It was a stabbing pain just behind his eyes.

"You think that is what I mean by this gesture?" Michel's fingers were still threaded through his companion's hair, only withdrawing slightly, "To me...you're not a gentleman of the evening...you're..."

Michel looked absolutely flustered right now, there was nothing he could say that wouldn't be stepping all over Zevran's boundaries. His seriousness what not given serious thought and he didn't want to push it.

"That you think I'm trying to buy your affection doesn't bother me nearly as much as the way you feel about yourself...if I do anything for you, there are no strings attached, no obligations, no fine print...it is because I want to," he wondered if that had been worded well enough, not giving too much away but just enough for Zevran to understand that no one in this room was being bought or sold.

"A bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, these things are gifts. A copper tub? That is not a gift, that is a debt to be paid." It was not that he was so proud as to say he wouldn't accept charity if that was the intent- but that he knew it was not the case. It was never the case. There were always expectations, always a cost- and all he could offer men like Michel was his body. Whatever this nebulous thing between them might be-

He would not have it tarnished by debts, by grandiose gestures- by being purchased or paid. Jonas had paid him, for the most part. The gold and silver had been enough to keep himself well armed, warm, and fed along with the rest of their merry band. "I was raised among whores. There is no shame in such a thing but I am not that. Not anymore."

For the Crows he was whatever they needed to be. For his own safety he spent the coin that was his skin for Taliesin's protection, for their mutual favor that could be gained by fucking the right masters. No longer.

"You...still think so little of me then?" It wasn't that he blamed Zevran, of course, Zevran barely knew him, it had been only a few months after all. He could not expect his companion to accept his sincerity, in spite of being elf-blooded he was still human, in spite of having come from the alienages, he was still nobility, in spite of creating his own brand of honor, he was still a Chevalier. All these things were still suspect and he was quick to bring it to mind, lowering his hand and nodding his head.

"I have never thought of you in such a way," granted he'd only found out that Zevran had been raised among whores just recently, "but if you feel that's how I have treated you or how I have been treating you, then you have my apologies."

And his reluctance, as he folded his arms against his chest. Touching Zevran? Sleeping with him? Had he been playing into all of those things? Should he touch him? It was perplexing again.

"...I have known men like you for twenty years- and for twenty years that is the least of what they would want of me, and the last of what they would offer for it." Old lessons did not die easily. Do not trust humans, for they only care for their purse, their cock, or their power. More often than not it was a mixture of all three. Do not trust the knights, for they would be cold and cruel under honorable smiles. Know them to be liars and life was well. Do not feel things for nobles- for they never felt anything for elves.

Anything more was foolish.

And here was Michel, elf-blooded, disgraced but noble, honorable and marked by the Lion of Orlais- sincere in his interest. In his assumed kindness. In offering gestures that mean so little to him to do so if only because he cannot grasp the weight of them. To another human, another knight, another noble? It would mean nothing. "The assumption is not entirely without precedent."

"I see...and I understand...I do," no, he really didn't, but he could run his hand through his hair and smooth the features of his face and pretend that he did. He could pretend that the knife wasn't in his gut and that Zevran wasn't turning it counterclockwise. It is not as though he was saying anything that wasn't true, Michel cared very little about the small fortune he'd been granted to maintain his appearance. He couldn't take it with him, but still.

"If I had known from the beginning..." why hadn't Zevran told him any of this at the start? It would have been very different! It made him feel that something in his noble nature had been twisted, or that perhaps it had been false from the beginning. Every inch of him had been designed to be fraudulent after all, he thought some of it might have been real, that there was a real him somewhere underneath all of these layers. It was not easy to shut that off, it wasn't easy to stifle the panic that found its way to his eyes.

"I...should have my injuries checked..." as if he'd just suddenly noticed he wasn't feeling well at all, none of his injuries had been bothering him before now, but there was a real desire to escape.

"No. You don't." Zevran sighed but it was...fond, rather than weary. "For as much as you are a part of that world or were a part of it- you stand apart from it."

It was terribly confusing. He did not know what to make of it, what to make of Michel, but trusting his intent on the surface? It was not in Zevran to be able to do so. He could not offer that. Too many years, too many hands, too many lessons earned with blood and bone and bitter smiles. Explaining that to anyone- Alistair knew shades. Leliana understood if only for living in somewhat similar albeit voluntary situations. But to simply come out and state it plain? It was not something Zevran did.

Yet here he had for Michel. Felt his discomfit, explained it, forgave it. Rather than tucking it away for the sake of Michel's pride. That...he would have to examine that. Blame it on exhaustion, perhaps. "Go to the healers. You should have gone there as soon as you arrived. You noble sorts and your stoic weathering of pain, truly, I will never understand it."

"I don't know what that means," Michel said brusquely, a world he was a part of, but stood apart from? Where did that mean he stood right now with Zevran? Solidly on the meridian of neutrality...and suddenly he realized it was difficult trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He'd never felt any sort of threat from Zevran before and he had been in quite a few vulnerable positions, but he felt something that he could only describe as a threat now. Not a physical threat, but something more existential.

The answer to that was to flee, which he did, a little too abruptly for it to be natural. Fortunately between Zevran's leave and Michel's injuries it would or should be convincing enough so as not to be seen as the kind of running someone did under such trepidations. He was halfway down the hall when he realized he'd been holding his breath, that he'd broken into a cold sweat and he cursed himself for it. Suddenly he wasn't so certain he could come back to this place after that.

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

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