sixthiterationlogs | One | Fate Emptied of Hope

Entry tags:

One | Fate Emptied of Hope

WHO: Alistair Theirin
WHERE: Fountain Square/Inn
WHEN: Dec 27, Evening
OPEN TO: One at the fountain (Claimed by Zev), OTA at the Inn, per usual.
WARNINGS: None - will edit if any occur.

'Cross Veil and into the valley of dreams:

"Very funny," came the voice from near the fountain. Dripping wet and cold, Alistair looked challengingly up at the sky, arms held out to either side. "But I don't know how you thought I'd fall for this! This isn't Redcliffe," he called. "And it's definitely not Denerim or Kirkwall or Wycome. It's not any of those tiny towns in Orlais. I've never seen this place before, so it's not my memory, cheater!"

Bending down, he picked up the first thing he saw - oh, a rock, that'll help - and threw it upward, not really noticing where it went. He heard it fall on the ground somewhere, but that was neither here nor there. It was proof he'd thrown it the wrong way, if anything.

"I don't trust you, Nightmare!" More agitated, he started to look for another rock. Another anything. "Or is this some Despair Demon's work? Encroaching on your territory now that you lost the Inquisitor? Well tough luck to you both - I'm not afraid anymore, and there's nothing left for me to Despair over. I might be the Maker's own idiot, but I'm not going to trust this illusion!"

Where had his sword gone. His shield, his armour. Which direction was the damned Nightmare?! He couldn't fight the damned thing if he couldn't see it, and he couldn't see it. Anywhere. Whatever Demon it was fueling this illusion, it was better than any he'd fought through yet, and he didn't want to think about what that meant.

In ignorance stumbling:

There was a good fire burning, and that was nice. Really, the place was nicer than roughly every other inn he'd ever seen, including the Hanged Man -- Well, honestly, it far surpassed the Hanged Man, the Pearl, definitely the Spoiled Princess. Places with names he couldn't remember because all he'd been concerned about was finding the bottom of his mug and then having another.

No such luck here, not that he minded. He'd had years to leave that particular vice behind, not that it had been a kind one while he'd had it. But at least now he was warm, dry, and, though confused, knew a few things for certain: There was food, there was shelter, and there was a chance - at least something of a chance - that this wasn't the Fade.

As he stood by the fire, pleasantly toasting himself, he realised he had a lot to think about. And that thought made his head hurt. Nose wrinkled, Alistair rubbed at his temples, muttering a quiet, "Ow."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It left him cold in a way the winter couldn't manage. A chill in his bones that came from snow and ice- that was one thing. But this? It leeched the heat from his blood, from his gut. Settled like bile on the back of his tongue as he saw- and saw, and saw. A woman not so very unlike Taliesin holding his leash.

Someone that was more calculating than considerate. Someone that found her comfort in a boy and ruined him because she no longer had use for him.

Someone he would have slit the throat of without batting an eye, whereas at the end of the journey with Jonas? He would never. His hands remained on Alistair as he dropped to the ground, tears against his fingertips that had twins on his cheeks. He was an assassin, assassins did not weep. But the grief in Alistair- anyone else and he would not know what to do. How to handle this somber twist of emotion- but it was Alistair. Nevermind their worlds were different, their wardens and paths so strange. He was still the boy he'd followed and teased, the boy he'd fought to protect, the boy that protected him just as well.

He wrapped his arms about Alistair's shoulders and held him close, burying his own damp face against copper hair that did not smell half as much as dog as he remembered. "It is better here. It is safe."

With his face buried against Zevran's chest, he haltingly admitted, voice heavy with tears, "I'm afraid it's still the Fade. I'm afraid I'll open my eyes and it's going to be Nightmare and... and he'll have both of us." Because Zevran had bled.

Fade illusions didn't bleed. Demons didn't think far enough along to add blood. Not spontaneously, and Zevran bled.

But how would Zevran have gotten into the Fade anyway? He hadn't been at Adamant. He hadn't fallen as the wall crumbled.

Maker, he ached now, from the soul out. Everything he'd not been able to feel for a decade or more was breaking free because of a friend's gesture of kindness. Now he was crumbling like that wall.

"There are no demons here. No darkspawn. No dragons. No magic like we know." He fell into an easy rhythm of murmuring and rocking subtly, clasping Alistair's head under his chin, hand smoothing through the sodden tufts. "There are a great many people that are strange and equally lost, all of them from worlds unlike our own. If this is the Fade? It is a terrible prison. I have found it quite pleasant."

There were no ghosts. Nothing to torment him, nothing to guilt him. No reason for him to be half so afraid even if he remained somewhat wary. "This is real, Alistair. I am real. We are not home. We are not in the fade. We are...somewhere else, somewhere quite odd- and we are freezing. You are gong to catch your death of cold."

He huffed, turning to press his lips in a teasing smack against the side of Alistair's head. "We shall get you warm and dry, I shall prepare you a proper meal and you shall have to concede that this is real. That we are, at long last, impossibly so- safe. And if this is some trick, if this is some illusion and we are both caught by this nightmare? At the very least you shall no longer be facing him alone."

"I hope you never see Nightmare, Zevran," he exhaled, taking that subject and holding it close. It was easier to face. Fresher. A choice, in its way. "It picks through your head and finds your deepest fear. ...Or what it thinks is your deepest fear. Most of what it did for me was blather things that Morrigan already said."

Easier. Oh this was so much easier, talking about Morrigan, grousing about her and her horrible attitude. He took in a breath, and it shook, but as he let it go, it was smooth. "Royal bastard this," he said, "good for nothing that. The usual."

"You remember I was raised among the Crows, yes? There is nothing it could tell me that I have not already heard." They were raised without fear to leave them expendable, and the worst possible thing that could happen, the worst thing he could do? Had already come and gone long before he fell into the company of the Wardens.

He gave Alistair's hair one last smooth stroke, his forehead a soft peck of a kiss before leaning away enough to wipe at Alistair's cheeks. "So. Lies? Lies. Well you are a royal bastard, that much is true, but you'e renounced the throne. Always. You would be a miserable king- not that you would be bad at the job but- it would make you miserable."

It was slow, how he stood - but he did, placed his hands on Zev's shoulders, and then gave him another hug, warm and tight. "Thank you for..."

He'd started it. Now he had to find the words, and the words were... Well.

"...For being kind. It's been a while."

He wiped at his own eyes quickly, casting his gaze about just in case anyone bore witness to the sentiment, the display of affection. As glad as he was for Alistair- the village now held his one vulnerability.

Protecting him would be Zevran's top priority. "Do me a favor and don't mention it. You would ruin my reputation for frivolity if anyone thought me kind."

That was enough to bring a little bit of a smile back to Alistair's face. "Already got your bluff in on them, then. All right, all right, it's a huge imposition, but I'll pretend you're nothing but fluff and nonsense."

He paused.

"In front of people."

"I'm glad we have an understanding." Again, he patted Alistair's cheek, noting the pale cast to his skin, the bruising under his eyes. "Come. You need a proper bath, a good meal, and somewhere to rest for...if you have been hearing the Calling as long as you say? A week."

Or perhaps two.

A low chuckle and Alistair nodded his assent, following along with Zevran wherever it was he'd lead. The blood - accidental though it was - was enough reason for him to believe that the Painted Elf was real. And he'd missed having friends. Reason enough to let Zev do what he wanted. "Sleeping for about a week sounds pretty nice."

"You have more than earned it." He huffed, tucking himself close for the walk. No matter where they were? Alistair would keep him warm at the very least. And Zevran? Would keep him fed and safe as best he was able. Here? It was easier than it might be elsewhere.

Alistair let his arm rest around Zev since he was so close. And it was... It was nice to have contact that didn't involve exchanging money for bread or being pointed which way to go to earn his supper. To just be touched. Treated like a person.

Novel.

Sad that it was novel.

"...Real beds around here, even?" he asked. "I mean, I'm not picky anymore. I'll take a floor and a blanket."

"Real beds. Actual mattresses. The houses have heat and indoor plumbing, baths with heated water." which was a marvelous indulgence he has taken advantage of more than once. It didn't take long for him to decide on a house- somewhere warm, somewhere with room enough for them to secret themselves away, and perhaps start making room for his 'businesses' such as they were. "A kitchen with a wood burning stove and an ice box. Such luxury is unheard of outside of the manors of merchant princes in Antiva."

"...What even is an ice box? Just a box of ice?" What good was that? But he didn't miss a step, still walking at Zevran's side as he tried to puzzle out what use an ice box would be.

Was it a box made of ice?

Maker's breath, this place was strange already.

"A box that keeps food cold- with ice." As they are now in winter there is ice enough to cut from the lake. He grabs what he can when he has a mind to do so, for now? There isn't much cold in the kitchen. He'll have to collect more if he means to feed Alistair.

"Huh. I guess that would make some of it last longer, anyway," he agreed. "They used to keep potatoes in the snowbanks at Redcliffe. Same at the Monastery, so... huh. And here they do that in boxes? ...Keeps the cold in, I'd guess?" There was something behind that he'd have to look at, or at least just... accept.

"Something like that- ah. Here we are." He set down his bags near the front door to open it- no lock to speak of, not truly, and he would have to remedy that later. For now? He led Alistair inside, setting aside his boxes of good and spices in the kitchen, his wine in the same, before waving Alistair through to the bath. "Here. It will help you warm."

A hot soak could cure a number of ills.

"And while you are cleaning up I shall find you dry clothing and something to eat."

"...Should I expect a back scrubbing while I'm at it?" he teased, but he wasn't really protesting. He headed toward the bathroom instead, figuring the setup couldn't be too different from what existed in Orzammar. He could figure it out.

Surely.

...He hoped.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

One | Fate Emptied of Hope

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject