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

Entry tags:

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.

Threaded | Flat

It's chance that brings her out here, though she sometimes walks the battlements at night when sleep eludes her. There is a calm and quiet that soothes, that pushes away the things that keep her dreams less than pleasant. She certainly doesn't expect to see anyone save a passing guard or scout.

Imagine her surprise, then, to notice a very familiar figure in the shadows, the white mountainside beyond the keep's walls casting him in sharp relief against it. But he's too close to the edge, far too--

"Zevran."

It is perhaps the first time she's addressed him as such, lacking the usual tart bite she addresses him with. Instead it's hushed, stunned, but in the silence? It carries.

[Zevan, to put it mildly, had looked terrible in his initial return to Skyhold. Detlef had clearly tried everything he could but the damage done to him had been extensive and brutal. The only real cure that would work would be time. Time and care and effort.

Though that recovery would only be skin deep. In the days after his return where Bruce was around to attend to Zevran and his injuries while Detlef was recovering from his exhaustion and the other healers did not dare approach the elf little was spoken between them - Zevran was unwilling to speak and Bruce knew better than to try and pry any sort of response from the elf. He could see it from the way he moved, how he acted, the silence that hung around him. Bruce understood enough to not try and cause Zevran and his friends any more distress.

So on this particular night when Bruce came in late to check on Zevran he was quick to notice the missing elf. But rather than panic there was a sort of calm acceptance that came over him, an inevitability that clicked in his mind.

Instead of alerting anybody Bruce simply stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. After a moment's thought, he made his way to the battlements.

Once he was there, it didn't take long before Bruce spotted the elf. He paused around the corner, thinking again, watching the way Zevran sits so precariously at the edge. Just a little tilt forward and he'd fall all the way down. The valleys below would be too rough for anybody to ever be able to find the body. It would be fast and clean and easy.

That thought sits in his head for a full minute before Bruce puts it at the back of his mind and approaches Zevran. He slows his steps when he comes close enough, making sure he walks loudly so that the elf can hear him, eventually coming to a stop when he's right next to him. He doesn't say anything however, only opting to watch Zevran closely - to wait until the elf is ready to speak.]

Edited 2016-02-09 08:19 (UTC)

She had not been to see him since he returned. Not in his waking hours, at least. She has glanced at Alistair’s face, worried and pale, and she has seen the scars and the leather patch. Never had Leliana stayed long enough to see him stir, or even for Alistair to need to usher her away. The visits were fleeting and did not require a full hand to count.

Even now she has been aware of his work for his eye, in the stables, and she has considered descending from her tower to watch over his work with the students. The thoughts have never progressed beyond that, never spurred her heels to have her address him. She cannot actually think how long it has been, other than too long, and it sparks a painful weight in her chest and in her gut. One life could not sway the Inquisition. Necessity was what drove her - but protecting those precious few that were dear to her, who truly knew her, that was necessary to her, and she had failed in it. She had failed the Inquisition by allowing Crows into their very midst, and she had failed Zevran in the same stroke.

It is dusk before she finally moves from her tower, and she is approaching quietly, even if she allows deliberate cracks of twigs underfoot to let him know someone draws near. The sky is painted in pinks and oranges, Skyhold looming and black against the brilliance of the sky.

“Zevran.” Can I join you? or Do you mind some company? would both be excellent questions, were it not for her dread as to the response such a question might beg.

Ever since Zevran has stopped holing himself up in his room, Sam had grown somewhat accustomed to seeing him and his little 'flock' in the stables. He's yet to actually meet them, always giving a bit of a wide berth when he did his training in the area, but constantly feeling like he was being watched.

So it's a bit curious when he doesn't see the lot of them practicing whichever craft set for the day, but he doesn't take it to heart, figuring perhaps they had chosen a change of scenery.

Without Araceli there for the time, Sam simply works on climbing the wall and back down again, comfortable in doing that much on his own, but not the falling. Even so after a couple rounds he finds himself on top of the barn, just enjoying being up on top, and taking a peak down through the hatch in the roof.

It isn't so strange to spot someone in the rafters, but it still surprises him when he spots the boot. Curious to know who was lounging around way up there, Sam pokes his head down, brows raising when he catches a glimpse of the assassin skulking up on the beam.

"Zevran?"

Maxwell been in the Emprise when it had happened, and it had taken time for word to reach him. There would be others, of course, who would be able to leap into action and who could be there for him when (when) he was brought back, but still he returned as soon as he was able.

Uncertain really what, if anything, he would be able to do, but wanting to be there.

He appeared sometime after, just long enough after reaching Skyhold to learn Zevran was already back, with a small cloth-wrapped hunk of chocolate in hand. Surely it was meant to be melted and molded into a confection for some special visitor, but it had been unattended and when Maxwell thought of things his healers probably weren't providing, it came in high on the list.

Ridiculous and needless, and just because.

Edited 2016-02-09 13:26 (UTC)

Beleth had come to him the night before, and after he'd made sure she was alright, he'd taken off the next morning - a beeline to Zevran's room. He waited, after Alistair simply shook his head, and had fallen asleep sitting outside Zevran's door, knees tucked up against his chest, cheek rested upon them. When Alistair finally let him in, he couldn't remember what time it was, or how long he'd been waiting, and he shook himself to let himself in, the guilt already a heavy blanket on his heart.

"Zevran?" He asked as he stepped into the room.

The little healer clutches her bundle as she enters and finds Zevran in the stables.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," she says softly. Kallian keeps a respectful distance, her gaze lowered aside from a brief, initial glance over his injuries. She keeps her expression carefully neutral. "I just... wanted you to have these." She puts down her little bundle, which opens enough to reveal a packet of herbs and a small clay pot. "Valerian tea. I give it to Detlef sometimes if sleep won't come to him. And a numbing salve, in case things... act up. We used this a lot in the alienage," she explains, "Not much, I know, but I hope they bring you some small measure of comfort."

She takes a few steps backward.
"I won't take up your time. But I thought it would be the least I could do. You helped me once, after all."

They're not friends. It's a truth Sherlock takes for granted, and yet: the experience of his disappearance and subsequent rescue is something... different. Unnerving.

He'd been prepared with his next retaliation, after that stunt with his equipment in the Undercroft. Zevran kept all of his vital belongings behind a locked (and trapped) door, and Sherlock had already been tripped up by that once. So he was prepared with something subtler, more indirect: a tincture made to be extremely attractive to bees, which he'd planned to smear over the weapons rack Zevran always used for his lessons, his usual seat in the tavern... anywhere that would suit, really. He'd been in the process of perfecting the formula when news of the former assassin's disappearance had shaken Skyhold.

At first, it had been merely deflating, knowing that he couldn't put his new formula to its intended use. And then Zevran had actually come back — minus an eye, looking half-dead compared to his usual self.

Sherlock doesn't approach to offer his condolences, or his sympathy, or whatever else nonsense people are probably hounding Zevran with. They're not friends. And yet he finds himself getting irritated on Zevran's behalf. Because people are doubtlessly offering all sorts of meaningless platitudes. Maker knows that in his shoes, Sherlock would be aching for a distraction. He decides to test the waters.

It's a relatively minor prank, compared to the possibilities presented by swarms of bees, but it's also far more personalized. Some lines drawn in the dirt and hay on the floor of the stables, a handful of well-placed, temporary props, and the space suddenly appears off, distorted from reality: longer than it should be, asymmetrical, and a little bit off-kilter. Easily disorienting for almost anyone entering. Potentially head-spinning to someone attempting to readjust their sense of depth perception.

"Hey."

Leave it to Isabela to keep the greetings light and simple. She comes and sits by him.

"Remember you asking me what you could do to pay me back for spoiling you? Coming back is a pretty good start. Giving them plenty of hell in return is good too. But mostly I'm just selfish. You've only just started being around me again. I'd hate for that to not happen anymore. It's good to have ports you know."

It was late, Michel realized, he'd only just returned to Skyhold from his own trials in Emprise du Lion when the news reached him. He would like to have gone right away to check on Zevran, he could feel a toxic mixture of guilt and barely suppressed, rarely seen anger wanting to manifest itself. Tightening in the pit of his stomach, a horrible ugly thing that he could not confront anyone with let alone the elf.

He wasn't at all certain if his presence would be welcome, but in addition to this he had his own internal injuries that prevented him from doing terribly much. The not doing terribly much thing lasted for approximately half a day before he gathered himself and climbed the familiar path to Zevran's room looking less like a Chevalier and more like a vagrant. Giving himself at least a little time allowed him the composure he needed to grab on to his senses and behave accordingly.

Good or bad day, Michel was not the sort to force his company in delicate situations and with his head on right he could better read the climate. Additionally Zevran was being guarded well enough so, for however long it took, Michel simply stood outside of the door and across the hall--upright as he could manage. Tiny discomforts were ignored, pain as well, he could stand here indefinitely if he needed to, more or less, and if he couldn't then he would waste little time in coming back.

Regardless he made a home for himself against that wall and fully intended to stay his post until either his stubbornness was irritating enough, or Zevran was in the mood for him.

Cyril comes to see him a few days after he starts seeing people. He feels like coming sooner would be crowding Zevran and coming later would make it seem like he was ignoring him. The last thing he wants is to make Zevran think either of those things true. If he came during a bad day first he left without much fuss, but during a good day he's there.

He knows that people are bound to be end up hurt or killed in this organization. They're fighting to restore order and that sort of action will make enemies of those who love chaos. That knowledge still doesn't make it easy to face this sort of thing. He was already laid bare by his worry for Merrick and he's surprised by how much he feels about Zevran. That concern is even loud enough to be heard over the tangle of emotions left over from fussing over his brother.

Cyril isn't here to ask questions. He doesn't pester for details. He hates being noisy. He's not there to make Zevran talk or force him to deal with things. He wants to provide a pretty distraction more than anything.

When he arrives he looks comforted to see Zevran. He's worried about the wound but it doesn't show. There's a soft, welcoming smile instead, practiced carefully as an offer for that distraction.

"I wasn't sure what I should bring as a get well present, you know that means I'll have to make up for it later," he says, once he's settled down. "You'll have to think of something good to ask for."

Pel is not the climber Beleth is, nor is she permitted to use her magic to even the score, but she has seen enough horror to know that everyone responds to it differently. She has such a rapport with Merrick that she can see him through these times by holding him tightly while he howls. She climbs toward Zevran without having any plan except to sit and drink with him, bringing a flask of her own.

She settles down by him and says nothing. Just opens the flask and drinks from it. Gin.

Katniss had been practicing climbing inside of places, and the stables had been one of her favorite places to do so. She needed to clear her head, because she was trying to make herself face Zevran and his injuries. All of them had some sort of level of guilt - she had seen Alistair walking around. Katniss didn't feel guilt, as much as she felt ... like she wasn't sure what the hell she could give Zevran right now.

Of course, she knew that could be easier if she actually talked to him.

Which, apparently, would be something that would be a lot easier, as she pulled herself onto the top rafter and found Zevran there with a bottle of ... something.

She balanced herself, and gave him a long look. Then spoke directly from the heart.

"Okay, people say I take stupid chances - but climbing up into the rafters of this place, and getting drunk? Takes 'do you have a death wish' to a new level."

Kaisa isn't good with this kind of stuff. This...very serious, very dark kind of things. She's aware of her own lack of experience in it, and how badly she handles serious situations. It's easier to gloss over things with a joke, rather than face them head on. Zevran isn't exactly an intimate, either.

But Kaisa is, always, a helper, and he needs help. And he deserves help.

So she wanders in to the stable one day, Puppy at her heel. She watches curiously as he teaches carving, makes a note to try asking him about it herself one day. Right now, she needs to stay focused. Once the students are dismissed, she mosies on up to Zevran, watching them leave. "...If the Inquisition tries giving trouble about them, I could conscript them." She hesitates, and holds her hands up. "Not that I'm encouraging it, but as a last resort, if things go tits up. I can always conscript them and forget to make them take the Joining until things blow over."

She really hopes that didn't come off wrong. After a few moments, as if to try to smooth over any ruffled feathers from her offer, she gestures to Puppy, who is currently rolling in the dirt, trying his very hardest to ruin the bath she just gave him. "...Do you like dogs?"

One thing she's come to love about Skyhold are its nights. Even the rare cloud cover they get this high in the Frostbacks is nothing to the dark of the Planasene's heart. Stars had been a treat you would climb the trees to see, something you see when the hunt ranges far from camp. Nothing like the brilliant velvet dark of the mountain sky, pinpoints of light blazing out, the moon rivaling the torches below.

But there was little of the moon tonight, and the Zevran shaped darkness cut from the starcloth reminded her of the forest.

She'd seen him before, sitting there. Not every night, but some. He would perch with a solemn almost-longing, like he was paying court to the empty air.

Nahariel had been torn between respecting the invisible tides that pushed out from him and saying something. She'd let it be the first, because she hadn't anything to say. Not until she'd remembered a song, whistling mindlessly over tea that morning. She whistled it now, a Dalish melody, haunting and clear as so many of them were. Her footfalls were heavy and even on the stone so he could tell her speed, the song in her mouth to give her position away in the low-light. She'd even taken a farther set of stairs to be sure she'd come from the side he could see. Every trick she knew of stealth or silence reversed. He'd know.

And he'd know far enough in advance that if he didn't want her company, he could be gone before she even laid eyes on him.

Most people don't bother looking up, it was true, but Simon had learned. His sister was uncomfortably fond of high places as well as leaving her shoes behind. Sometimes those things combined, leaving Simon with a habit of looking up for stray boots or siblings every so often. Even so he almost missed Zevran when he glanced up at the rafters, but an out of place glint of light from the bottle caught his attention. From there his eyes shifted up, catching the shadowed figure clinging to it. Simon considered giving the mystery drunk some privacy...but then he caught and recognized the wisp of blonde hair that shifted when the elf moved.

Simon had heard the worst kinds of rumors about Zevran's disappearance and return, but he hadn't been able to find the man to dispel any of them. Now his chest was tight as he moved towards the stairs to reach the barn's second floor, boards creaking loudly to announce his presence. All the same his voice was gentle when he spoke, still having to look up even from the higher point.

"Zevran," he began, not sure what to say next but needing to say something. "How long have you been up there...?"

The nightmares that haunt Martel are of his own creation - bitter knowledge that makes them no easier to live with, chasing him from his bed out underneath these foreign stars. On the battlements, he could be anywhere in Eosia, but for those stars; the rift in Skyhold, his company sought by Galadriel, by Jamie, the reminder of the uphill battle that is his mastery of magic in Thedas, it's hard to think he'll never feel alien beneath them. That he'll ever not think of Elenia first, of Demos and Vardenais and every place he wanted to burn out of himself.

He is truly in exile now, and never more aware of how close to him he keeps those places.

--but he sees the elf, contemplating, and some things are not foreign to him. Some things he doesn't need a book in a new alphabet to decipher.

That he moves quietly is habit; he exerts no extra effort to be subtle, a conscious choice that Zevran be warned of his presence before he draws up beside him, resting his hands on the cold stone and gazing out at the same vista, not sidelong at someone who did not invite an audience.

He waits, for a moment. For Zevran to leave, or suggest he must; to see if he won't.

Merrill does not come empty-handed; like the last time she saw him, before all of this happened, she comes with cookies charmed from the cook and Barkley (who is now a bit larger and less fat, with more fur and more tail). There's also the addition of a book, tucked under her arm so that the cover is facing away from Zevran, though it's impossible to tell if that's on purpose. Either way, Barkley darts ahead of her when Merrill comes through the door, paws coming up on the bed (on Zevran's good side) as he repeatedly tried to jump up.

"Oh, Barkley- Zevran, I'm sorry, do you mind if he comes up there? If not, I can get him to stop. I know some people don't like animals on their things."

Something she's never particularly understood, but then again, she's Dalish.

[ When she sees his shape in the darkness, her eyes reflecting like shining pennies, Sabine doesn't think much of it, save to approach for the sake of company. She is the sound of her servant's skirt flapping as she comes closer, a scent of flowery hair oil thick in her curls, and then, a shape in Zevran's periphery when she steps up onto the edge with cattish balance and daring.

She steps on over, in her good boots, going slower now that she is close to the edge -- and the first thing that comes to mind to say dies on her tongue.

Instead; ]

I was taught about the tricks are minds play with us. That when you look over like you do, your mind thinks you're in danger. The feeling like we might fall, or jump, is only the desire to survive.

[ She crouches, then sits, holding on to stone as she peers over the edge herself. ]

It's how I stopped being afraid of heights.

There is something of a quandary here for Vivienne. She's terribly concerned about Zevran. She cares about how he fairs. Yet caring is a weakness. Perhaps she should not care as much as she does and that is something she will wrestle into submission later. But in the moment she wants, no needs, to see the Antivan elf assassin that's wriggled into the cracks of her icy heart. She's heard the most dreadful things and goes looking for reassurance that he's not dead, nor in any immediate danger of being so.

Now the perpetrators of this assault? She can't speak for their prolonged longevity. Vivienne is quite pissed off. And an angry Iron Lady is a dangerous beast indeed.

She comes mid-morning bearing a care package nestled into a basket. A bottle of brandy for later, herbal tonics, sleeping draughts. In the other hand is a steaming pot of coffee. Vivienne had waited until she was quite satisfied he must have slept himself out for the night. A bracing cup of coffee and its intense bitterness would be just the thing to stimulate the humours. Both equally important to the healing process, at least of the physical variety. Her visit was intended to aid the emotional healing, best as she is able.

A rap on the door and she announces herself. "Darling, are you indisposed at the moment?" Nakedness is of no concern to her, though if he's at his morning toilette, she'll return later.

News from Skyhold had been scarce in the Emprise; what word made it through to the wintry, blighted lands was scattered and incomplete, even at the best of times. She held no title in Thedas and, crippled as she'd been by the persistent droning of the Old Song, she'd had neither need, nor the presence of mind to seek out word of the goings on in the fortress. She had learned of Zevran's return (and indeed his ordeal itself) through hushed whispers and rumor as she traveled back to Skyhold. She sought him out as quickly as she was able, upon her return, but his recovery was well underway by the time she found him.

His students moved with skill and speed, practicing their paces in the sun. She watched them, as she approached on the road from the fortress, and felt some distant twinge of longing. It was dismissed as quickly as it came; they were not the Galadhrim and, still clad in her armor and worn from travel, she barely resembled herself. She was the lady of the golden wood in name alone, and lingering on sad thoughts did them all a disservice.

She had abandoned her staff in the rotunda, but her cloak and bag remained on her. Although Skyhold was warmer than the Emprise, she found an idle gladness in the fact that she'd kept her cloak around her shoulders. It was the memory of cold that hounded her, and little more, but she drew it closer as she moved into the clearing. Finding Zevran, it seemed, was not going to be a dire challenge. As she slowed he shouted a sharp reprimand at the practicing students and, at once, she spied him seated beneath a tree.

Threaded | Flat

Battlements

Battlements (cw: suicide ideation)

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