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

"Longer 'o', Mia. Like you would for 'Oooh Maker, Zevran, do shut it.' or something of the like. Sooocioo." Antivan is sweeter, smoother than Orlesian, more forgiving than Tervene, and a great deal less angry than the tongue of the Anders. Low and warm and lilting, like good wine or better women.

"Flirtatious friendship without actual intent. A teasing friend, an honest one." A beat. "Ah, that is...Mm. It will sound weighted, again due to Common having one word for many, many things. Platonic affection? Love that is not romantic nor is it sensual."

Love, not romantic or sensual. An eyebrow raises. "Familial love, then?" Of course, it would be the first thing she thinks of. Perhaps it's not entirely right, but she does want to understand.

She recalls him speaking of someone earlier in terms that might fit. Alistair, she thinks, yes, he must certainly be one of those. She's never met the man, but he obviously means a great deal, and cares a great deal for Zevran if he's gone to such lengths to protect him.

"No, that is Stoagre. But they are similar, I suppose. Amicare is less familial but more...it is difficult to explain, in Common. You do not have the words." Or the understanding that came with them. A friend was a friend and context provided the rest. Love was love and much the same-

It lacks nuance.

It's frustrating.

"Mmm. Perhaps I should learn Antivan, so you might explain it better."

She's only partially joking, not even half. It's been some time since she's had something new to occupy her mind with. While she's grateful she was out and wandering the battlements tonight, that cannot always be her escape from her own restless mind.

"If you would like lessons, I would be happy to teach you." And for once? No leering. This is-

It is part of his home he can share. An excuse to speak it more with someone he actually likes? Is marvelous.

And it is another reason to reconsider coming out here at night. There is the prospect of more, of things that might be done and small pleasures that might be taken. Zevran values himself as a distraction and a blade above all else, but he is not the only one prepared to distract, if need be.

They are friends, though she might have laughed if someone suggested it before tonight.

"Maker knows you must have the patience necessary for it." Mia's lips press together once more as that chilly wind breezes over them, and she glances beside them to see where her shoes have gotten to. "Although I propose we meet somewhere warmer, next time."

"The kitchens have the hearth banking it's coals at all hours." Somewhere public enough that there are not misunderstandings nor unfortunate implications. Mia herself wouldn't have any that Zevran fears- but her brother? Much as he teases the man he does not wish to make trouble there, nor borrow any. "I could make coffee and a few small, simple things from home. To learn Antivan? You must also eat Antivan."

He shifts, finally, reaching behind him to tug around both his shirt and her boots. "Here."

With as much grace as she can manage, she slips back into her boots. Her feet are now cold as ice, but it was well worth the effort for what the evening has gained. She couldn't have passed him by, and now...

She's incredibly glad she did. Glad too for that evening in the tavern when Zevran hadn't been scared away by her foul mood. Perhaps some things do happen for a reason, after all.

"An evening in the kitchens it is."

And another reason for Zevran to consider continuing, when he came back out here again. She had no doubt the thought would occur to him, that he might find his way out here again. Despair was not so easily shrugged aside.

But she would be here. One meager, sputtering light in the dark, if he'd take it.

He offers a hand at her elbow to support her while she pulls her shoes on- Maker only knows how they must feel after being on the cold stone for so long. Part of him, a small, wavering part of him, wishes to offer some manner of foot massage as recompense for her standing here, talking to him, pulling him back off the ledge. Repay a debt that has no price. The rest-

Wants to offer more.

That should alarm him more than it does and- he cannot promise he will not come up here again. He cannot promise he won't decide to be done before the choice can be made for him. But he can attempt to make a gesture. Voice low he murmurs, softly, "Perhaps...next time I feel the battlements calling I shall come to you instead."

It is not much of a promise- it is not even a promise proper, but it is something.

It means something. A great deal, in fact. This is some measure of trust being laid in her hands, and she holds it with all due reverence for that fact. She will ask no more than that he can willingly give, after all.

"Thank you."

And then, before he start to lose that smile, before that lost expression can claim him again, she leans in. It's barely a peck, no different from one she might have given her siblings, but it's not right that he's the only one who gets to take her by surprise.

Friends who tease, indeed.

"I expect that cloak back, after all."

He-

That.

What?

Zevran stands, stunned for a long moment. That did just happen, did it not? It did. The brush of warmth familiar enough for him to place it but unfamiliar enough in it's source to leave him frozen. Before he can stop it, before he can duck his head or crackle a joke-

He blushes.

"I- yes. Of course."

She won't mock him for it, nor will she attempt to tell anyone. As though they would believe her! But it's a sight she's nonetheless pleased to see. So he can be surprised after all.

Good to know. Now she'll have to find new ways of keeping him on his toes.

"Good night, Zevran. Please, do try to get some sleep."

And with the implication that he won't leap with her cloak, thus protecting him at least for tonight, she turns to make her way back up the battlements. It's dreadfully cold out here, after all.

And she feels drained enough now that sleep might be a possibility.

"Ah- Goodnight. Mia." Floundering in more ways than one- though these are far more pleasant than what had him sitting on the battlements in the first place, Zevran stares after as she sweeps back into the night.

Well.

Now he must find a way to return the cloak, be charming bu not too charming, and brush up on his chess game. All fine reasons to weave his own way back to bed and consider what he might do with his morning that would be more productive than thoughts of leaping.

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

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