antivanleather | Fifth Drop - Again, until you decide to drop. Now I'm so high, so high, so high [Action]

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Fifth Drop - Again, until you decide to drop. Now I'm so high, so high, so high [Action]

plans.

His eyes snap open as the thought finishes and for a long moment he can't breathe or think past the remembered pain of a gaping wound and the cold, blissful slide of a knife through his heart. No Isaac, so kind, so cruel to cradle his head. No grit of dirt or stone under his cheek and digging into his back. No clash of battle or distant, strained cry that was so very familiar- oh. Katniss. She'd seen. He's still wrapping his mind around being alive, around breathing when his hands fly to his chest- whole and slick with sweat rather than blood. Alive. He is alive. It is no trick, it is no twist of necromantic intent. He feels no lesser than he had before. Well. Mildly ill and lethargic, yes. But he lives.

And remembers nothing at all of being dead aside from it being a decidedly uncomfortable process to achieve. If he spends too much time thinking on it, he'll drive himself mad. All he can do is take that he is alive with good grace and get to his feet. Laying here is becoming uncomfortable- but for a fair while he can't bring himself to move, relishing the simple act of laying out in the sun and being able to breathe without smelling his own death

When he does rouse himself from where he's settled in the woods he will, without any real sense of urgency- which is fairly odd for him, go first and foremost to Isaac's home. There was something he gave the Forgemaster to hold onto that he needs back. Afterward he finds himself wandering to the clothing shop to find a shirt. Perhaps shoes. Something beyond the plain white trousers the Malnosso gave him upon his revival. From there, it's home. Home to check in on his boys and be yelled at quite a bit.

At his house he'll pick the lock to the front door since he does not have the key upon his person or feel particularly inclined to calling attention to himself, slip inside, and make his way to the kitchen to brew himself a mug of coffee. If a hearty measure of brandy makes it way into the mug as well- can anyone blame him? He's settled there for the first hour he is back home, sitting quietly in the kitchen and sipping away.

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...that was not yours to discard as you willed, Isaac.

[The closest to cold his voice has ever been- though it's far more tired than anything else. The ink winds it's usual paths, all in place save for the mark Isaac himself set on his back. That had come after, and as such was gone.]

What did you do with it?

[Unfazed and intrigued by the sudden coolness underlying Zevran's answer, he spreads his hands, the bird’s wings fluttering in its efforts to maintain its balance.]

Discard? [Isaac's tone holds a small measure of incredulity.] ...Oh, no. 'twould have been a waste. As for the sack itself… that, I assure you, is in the very same condition in which you entrusted it to me thinking me to be the keeper of your belongings. [He chuckles low in his throat.] Blood and all. Of greater use to you, I believe, than piercings infused with magic for those keenly sensitive ears of yours.

I do not wear them upon my ears.

[He mumbles, not entirely feeling up to Isaac's game. But he did earn this, after a fashion. He would have asked someone else to hold onto those for him if he thought he'd have the time. He didn't. So all there is to do is climb up the boulder to settle not far from him, wings flapping to adjust to his path until he is perched properly.]

I keep them for luck.

…I am aware. [He answers unsmilingly and with a tiredness of his own running like a thread through those three simple words, leaving it a mystery as to which remark he was addressing while he half-absently watches the other pick his way up.

Words, old words drift to the surface of his mind from the times he has lingered with Abel on dark, quiet nights, gazing out from the highest point in the village towards his home deep in the woods. ’tis a sad place; but ‘tis ours, Abel.

The crow stirs, swiping its beak from side to side against Isaac’s glove to clean it of stray crumbs. He slowly turns his hand to invite it to rest in his palm, but it squawks and takes flight in a sweeping blur of feathers, making for the trees above. His hand remains open and half-outstretched for a moment longer, less expectantly and more thoughtfully, before he lets it sink to his side.]

Edited 2013-04-11 05:17 (UTC)

[For a long moment he's silent. Watching Isaac and the bird, trying to pick out whatever it was that went unsaid, whatever it was that the forgemaster is playing at here. He cannot tell at the moment- his ability to read him seems off. They'd never been quietly contemplative with one another without the addition of wine.

Which would be a lovely addition to the conversation at this point. Alas, there was none to be had. He will make do.]

They can be fickle creatures, Crows.

[It's said slowly. Carefully.]

Their attentions fleeting.

[At the remark, a soft, contemplative smile tinged with bitterness creeps across his lips.]

Yes…

[A strange, tenuous silence follows as thoughts and feelings whirl chaotically with a tireless ferocity inside him. He pushes his fingers through his hair, his hands stopping to grip the back of his head as the futility of his rage sinks in. Too many days had been devoured by fury, as if it had any power to undo the past. As if it could command any man to fearfully revere him, or to - -]

Of that… [He answers lowly, hands falling.] I know well.

[And it burns. He scoffs mirthlessly, so harsh and breathless a sound, it might have been the beginnings of a sob. But his lowered eyes are inscrutably hard, his features firmly set.]

Edited 2013-04-12 04:08 (UTC)

[He would not insult Isaac with an apology. For leaving. For arguing. For dying to save him. That was not their way. Things might be a great deal easier if it was- but such words had been empty to Zevran too long for him to offer them.

He cannot help but shake the feeling that it might have been the same for Isaac, especially after what he was told not long before he died.]

...they do return in time, though. Long memories of safe harbors. Such things are terribly rare for Crows. Most think them a nuisance. Pests. Something to be scuttled aside and ignored.

[But not Isaac. Isaac took his company as he willed and cared little for what anyone else might say of it.]

[A cool certainty and a measure of resignation seeps its way into his answer:]

…And all fly away in the end. [After they have picked a man’s corpse clean, a vicious little voice whispers conspiratorially in the back of his mind. He gazes absently at his lap, snorting to himself. A small, self-deprecating snort. Restless fingers find the dagger hidden behind his right boot and toy with it, dangling it over his foot.]

I could resent a crow its wings and its keen eye for that which glitters and shines… but it changes nothing. ...And why should it? [He inclines his head, turning worn eyes skyward.] ‘tis wild in spirit; ‘tis its nature... isn't it.

[It brings to mind the people here who think to press and manipulate him into someone new for his betterment, or so they had claimed. Words, words, what good were moralizing words and spewing from ignorant mouths, he thinks. He would change for no one - nor could he, he believes, if he had the fierce compulsion in his heart to try. He's too far gone, too far beyond saving. Julia had refused to acknowledge it.]

As much as it is in your nature to offer safe harbor when you are of a mind- and to leave your door closed to it when you are not. To build a place for yourself where you need not be bothered by those that choose to not understand you and keep it safe from those that think you to be worth little.

[A dramatic gesture, he'd called it. In a fit of frustration and childish anger. But what was more dramatic- seeking solitude when the greater village did not want him, or continuing to hedge in upon a man that seeks to be left be? To attempt to twist and change him, insist that he need to try harder to be better. To be different. To be what they wish him to be.]

...This Crow, at least, will always find his way back. If you will bear his company.

[The Forgemaster’s lips thin, the olive branch left untaken. But it is not refused, either. Forgiveness had never been his strong suit; it invited tender, freshly sealed wounds to be torn open, and it was all too instinctive of him in uncertainty and wariness to seek control of the situation as best he knew how. But he’s tired and it shows in every sharp line of his face and in the shadows rimming haunted, heavy-lidded eyes. He’s tired of himself, of falling into the trap of wanting more where he couldn’t expect to find it, and when he hardly deserved it. But Hector’s gone now and had been for years, never having been in his grasp in the first place -- and so vanishes a few of those old, rotting hopes of more he’d nurtured for far too long, the fool that he was.

Hector had loved Rosaly. He had seen it. And her death could never take that away.

Something - he doesn’t know what… a fleeing sense of pride? Of indignation? - desperately attempts yet again to convince him that he can do better than this. That this is but another sad, cruel joke in his life, and what was one more? But in the weeks spent alone, brooding, he has seen that this is as good as it shall ever be in Luceti. And in time, he supposes, it shall be good enough.]

[Not pulled into a tender embrace- literal or figurative, but not turned away. That, more than anything, is enough for Zevran. He had done something foolish for one who had his begrudging loyalty that was now less than begrudging. Isaac was as he was and Zevran knew they got along best when there was no attempt to change or discuss it. What need had they for words? Their lives had been twisted, bloody, violent, and full of despair. They could discuss it, rage at the past- or continue forward despite it.

Zev is, as he ever was, in favor of moving forward. Silently, yes, but forward none the less.

Aside from shifting a little from where he sat and the odd flick of his wings for balance, Zevran remains still. Silent. Staring out at the world in contemplation of what he'd survived before murmuring.]

I had not thought myself a man of great faith. I've lived and worked with death for as long as I can remember- the thought of passing should not bother me. And indeed, it does not. But...I suppose I expected to at least Wake in the Fade for the time between then and now.

There was nothing.

And I do not know if I should be surprised or resigned to that.

...how is it that you have made your way, when the faith ascribed to you has failed so horribly?

[He considers this in silence, supposing The Fade to be a sort of purgatory where souls drifted restlessly; the crossroad perhaps between a final resting place and a prison of brutal, ironic tortures far beyond those fantasized of and carried out in his years. That the jaws of Hell might not be there to swallow him when he left the world and life behind is a thought he has rarely entertained. But what if there was naught awaiting him but a void stretching on for eons? If he would have the presence of mind and awareness to recognize the all-consuming nothingness enveloping him, as Zevran had been, perhaps barbed whips flaying his back and hammers splintering every sin-laden bone in his body isn't all too terrible.

It would give him something to feel – and to look at - , at least. He smiles wryly to himself, but it doesn't linger long.]

…Faith.

[The word issues through gritted teeth like a curse, lips curling at the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth.]

I believed, once. I believed that if I hoped and if I prayed hard enough, that He might look upon this creature He created and grace it with a smile. That He might punish those who wished me dead, and that I might find a place among man, no longer envying them their freedom and having to live in the woods like the beasts that would roam at nightfall, away from my own sister. ...And when I could not have that, then I asked God for the strength to strike down my enemies.

[His eyes fall shut and his hands double into fists, leather creaking.]

‘Bestow upon me the power to protect my own life, oh mighty Lord. If you can find it within your infinite grace to bless Sophia and Julia too and spare them the wrath of so many among your flock, then I am yours, body, mind, and spirit, and so I shall be to my dying breath.
‘
[A long, deep pause. Swallowing, he lets his powerlessly trembling fists fall.] …Long did I wait for a portent that He had heard my cry. And it came, oh yes. It came, and with such… unquestionable clarity.

[He looks out with eyes glinting sharply like broken glass, his stiff, thin-lipped smile caught somewhere between vicious rage and wrenching grief.]

The only one a man can truly place his faith in is in himself… [And then, under his breath, something slips free.] …and even then…

[But with a sudden pang of self-awareness, he angrily shakes off the thought.]

If it is a man’s desire to survive, he must fight for it at any cost; those who do not fight deserve not to live.

[There is so much more than he expects to hear coming forth, now. That Faith is such a trigger, such a telling strand in Isaac's story is something of a surprise- and then again considering all that had been said of his god in the time he's known the forgemaster, he truly should not be so. Such a lack of faith, a loathing or disappointment in one's creator had been hinted at in barbs and twists and less than subtle irreverence, in innuendo and wanton blasphemy since he'd met Isaac. But that he had been let down so keenly explained much of what he'd come to see in the man.

And a small part of him fears becoming equally twisted and bitter. While he'll not begrudge Isaac feeling that way it is not how he wished to live.

For a long moment he's quiet, sorting his thoughts before reaching out. It's an odd gesture, letting his fingertips alight on Isaac's cheek for a moment. Barely a moment. The lightest graze of calloused palm against smooth pale skin before he lets his hand drop back down to his lap. Confirmation of company. Of Camaraderie. of Commiseration. ]

Edited 2013-04-13 23:00 (UTC)

[In the emptiness of silence, Zevran’s hand reaches across the distance and through seemingly inconsolable despair to find him, his nerves tingling with the memory of days when he had found reassurance in touch. He bristles inwardly – and pursing his lips, he keeps still, his gaze still lost somewhere in the middle distance. Lord knows some part of him wishes to savour this touch and these attentions for as long as they could last. But in an instant he realizes he can't fully appreciate the gesture for what it is when he's too aware of all that it cannot be. He roils inside, unable to bear what now seems like an expression of pity on Zevran’s part, as if he were a child. Perhaps, in some ways, he still is. But the hand’s gone before he can twist his head aside. Or snatch hold of it by the wrist to keep it there.

The words left unsaid tangle up into a hard, aching knot behind his Adam's Apple, helpless frustration gripping him. He lets his eyes fall shut again, breathing.]

Touch me. [Not a snarled, hungry demand, but a request in a tone close to defeat.]

Edited 2013-04-14 01:26 (UTC)

[if the request surprises Zevran in the slightest he does not let it show. He simply shifts to settle alongside Isaac as though nothing has changed. As though he had not ignored the man for a month out of confusion and they'd argued and he'd died. As if it was as it had always and ever been between them. Easy, supportive, and entirely without judgement. Ne doesn't question Isaac's desire, simply offers the touch that was requested. A firm hand against his back, rubbing lightly between his shoulder blades through the fabric of his shirt. Without explicit direction, it seemed the safest course.]

[Lids flutter lightly at the caress – too gentle for him, he thinks - though his eyes remain closed and his tongue still for a long moment, mind intently focused on how the shell of his body responds. Nerve stir and waken and he lives, in the flesh at least. But it’s more than a simple touch between his wings. It acknowledges his presence in the world; it reminds him that he exists to someone in some meaningful way, or so he wants to believe. When he would one day vanish and drift off into death, would his absence give someone pause if for only a moment while the world kept turning indifferently? Would someone feel his absence like a missing limb, achingly aware of what had once sat here, living and breathing, laughing and smiling hollowly, seething with endless rage?

The sting of feeling forgotten is all too raw, still.]

…‘tis death so many dread and curse. [He muses lowly, more to himself than to be heard.] Above all, the thought of writhing long in the throes of a great and unimaginable agony. The destruction of the flesh... a painful end...

[A soft huff of a laugh follows, the thought left unfinished.]

Or one not quite so painful, mercifully given.

[Isaac could have let him lay there and die slow, and chose to not. Why that was he won't ask. What he will do is allow his hand to slide from Isaac's back to his opposite shoulder, pulling him in the few inches required for a solid, sideways embrace. A casual thing, to sling one's arms around a friend's shoulders. Less casual to let it linger and settle. A grounding gesture. A reminder of warmth and life and of care. Had it been Isaac that died on the draft Zevran would have missed and mourned him in his own way.

He simply cannot think of way to say that.]

[It’s a man’s kindness more than his capacity for brute force that takes Isaac by surprise, his pulse quickening as arms loop around him and draw him close. A flash of anxious uncertainty and the sense of being trapped makes him tense in an instant, blood singing in his ears and every muscle in his body primed for attack – but when he waits and it doesn’t come, his hand still tight around Zevran’s arm, he sinks from his adrenaline-charged state of alarm and finds something keenly familiar in the gentle, lingering way he’s being held.

It’s Sophia soothing him, trying to lull him back to sleep as things shuffled and restlessly circled the home in the dead of night; it’s Julia, struggling with tears and inarticulacy, throwing her arms around him after the curse had nearly made them strangers to each other. I’m here, they had said. I’m here.

Though not fully, he is able to let himself relax some, offering the elf a slant-eyed, almost critical look while mulling things over. Sexual contact was familiar, straightforward, uncomplicated. But this soon leaves him unsure of what to make of it, coming from Zevran. He has had his fill of it already, he decides.]

What it this, then?

[It’s the first, unfiltered thing that issues from his lips, and more sharp in tone than he had expected. Gratitude for cutting Zevran's life short?]

Edited 2013-04-14 08:12 (UTC)

This is a hug, Rosso. Something those that are not about to engage in intercourse do with one another when they wish to be companionable. A gesture of affection between family and friends.

[He shrugs and settles more comfortably against Isaac's side, arm not moving in the slightest. It's something he'd done with Crows, with Jack and Eugene. Something light and easy and without any pretense beyond desiring physical contact with no desire to do anything more. Uncomplicated.

And yet here, with Isaac, they are a thoroughly complicated thing due to what they had been, what they'd done, and where they were.]

Despite how very much of an ass I had acted- I would like to think of you as a friend. I would not jump in front of an axe for just anyone.

[A scowl crosses his features at the cheeky explanation.] I know what it means, fiend. Now let go lest I am to cut your arms loose.

[But despite the thread of irritation running through his words, it’s only an idle threat and he knows it, though he doesn’t offer so much as a hint of a smirk to make it that much more obvious. It’s as surreal now as it had been on Terrace, the fact that someone beyond his devils or one of Dracula’s minions under his command would have thrown himself in danger’s way for him, and he frowns at the reminder, wanting to make clear the idea that he didn’t feel indebted to Zevran for his sacrifice. The last thing he would like is for it to be dangled over his head and to be beaten with it at every opportunity until he might return the favour under terms he hadn’t established himself.]

Would you have done the same had you known you would never return here, or anywhere else?

Ask a foolish question...

[Zevran drawls, not moving in the slightest. This was cozy and comfortable and something he thinks that they both honestly need. He needs it to reaffirm the fact that he's alive and he hasn't lost his ability to feel. Isaac needs it for...well. He can't say. But he's glad to offer it all the same.]

...Yes. I would have. When one takes into consideration our respective abilities and usefulness in battle, from a tactical standpoint? You are the more valuable warrior. From an emotional standpoint it spared me having to watch you die, should it have come to that. And Fade or no Fade, I cannot regret that.

[Digesting this slowly and carefully, and silent a moment longer than he means to be, he finally shakes his head softly in wryly amused disbelief.

Value and approval. These are things he had sought so long from a ruthless creature with no love in his blackened heart, wasting what little faith he had had on Lord Dracula one day surprising him. Recognizing his devotions. Favouring him. Perhaps even regarding him as a second son. Hah. He had been a fool, allowing himself to be duped by his own desperate sense of hope and by the belief that he was far more important to Dracula beyond the uses of his own powers. Zevran's answer elicits a lone chuckle through his nose.]

You have always had a tongue for pretty words. Be wary that one does not cut it out one day, in hopes of finding silver.

[As his mind lingers on his own words, he’s eventually reminded of the vow he had voiced in Katniss’ midst.]

…That reminds me. [He fixes him a look, his smile cooling.] Where might that dagger of yours be, seeing as it is no longer in your heart?

I'll be certain to say an equal number of cruel or clumsy things to counteract the good.

[He smirks and shrugs, content. Until the question, at least.]

I have only just woken, Isaac. It was likely set aside with the rest of my belongings at the house if it was returned to the village. If not, I honestly cannot say. I hope it is with the rest of my belongings.

[He smiles thinly, still absently toying with his knife in one hand while feeling increasingly conscious of the embrace and being caught within it still.]

You already have.

[Either too tired or unwilling to pursue this train of thought, though, he lets it be and shifts his attentions on the answer given, stowing away pieces of information. The house. Zevran must be lodging elsewhere since he had stumbled across him, ill, in December. Paranoia in the wake of the cruel trick might have been a reason to move, but had it been enough of one?]

Indeed... I should certainly hope so. [He studies the blade in hand, jagged edge gleaming in the light as he turns it slowly, thoughtfully.] I was given one’s word that it would remain in your possession alone... and I’m afraid I do not take kindly to vows being unkept. Should that be the case.

Edited 2013-04-15 01:16 (UTC)

Depending upon who gave their word it is likely waiting for me or lost forever...I thought I heard.

[He frowns. Sighs. Drops his head against Isaac's shoulder and grumbles something low and inarticulate in Antivan as he sorts out his thoughts.]

...I thought I heard Katniss. Just at the end. She saw?

Fifth Drop - Again, until you decide to drop. Now I'm so high, so high, so high [Action]

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OKAY NO MORE EDITS FROM ME, gosh

ALL THE EDITS

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(no subject)

There is shameless talk of asses in this tag. Tread carefully.

There's always asses involved with these two.

TW for sex talk esp. 'cause Isaac sometimes has a terrible, terrible way of describing things.

so classy, isaac

Indeed!