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

[disgracedchampion]

"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."

[ombranera]

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.

[disgracedchampion]

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.

[ombranera]

"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.

[disgracedchampion]

"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.

[ombranera]

"...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."

[disgracedchampion]

"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.

[ombranera]

"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."

[disgracedchampion]

"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.