Sixth jump - you should know, you should know that [Action/Written]

[antivanleather]

[Action, locked to Isaac]

[This is not how Zevran imagined the first few hours of his freedom would be. The wine and the feasting and the drinking the day before, certainly. But the first morning after he had finished collecting his effects and bidding farewell to the Warden he intended to spend on the road. Leaving Ferelden for warmer climes. He did not intend to wake in a cell.

And yet, here he is, despite the best intentions. He wakes slowly arms flexing against his restraints and he keeps his head for the first few moments. Just manacles. Just a cold, dark cave like many that the Crows preferred to use for their longer imprisonments. But were this the Crows he would be dead, that went without saying. No, no. This is a personal vendetta- which leaves Zevran free to consider who it is he pissed off this time to earn such attentions while he works at attempting to lean just enough so that he might pull a pick from his hair. That he has none is worrying.

That there is no manner in which the manacles might be removed is of a greater concern. But when he finds that they actually constrict when he attempts to twist his thumb enough to pop it out of place and holds him all the tighter- then. Then he panics.

Crows are terrible. Nobles are worse. Mages, those that yet live and wish him dead? Horrify him and he used to be better at fighting down the swell of cold fear and the anxious ratcheting of his heart. Used to be able to laugh through it, to grin and smile and shrug off torment such as sensory deprivation and capture. It is cold. It is dark. He is alone. He is held by a mage he cannot recall at the moment and after all that he witness at the final battle in Denerim that is what makes him shift in earnest, rattle his chains and lash out with a foot to find purchase- he finds that his feet are bare and the wall is solid, little more. Brasca.]

[Action, Open]

[Later, when he is freed and his personal effects returned, when he realizes where he is in earnest and is armored and armed and less out of sorts Zev ducks into the Coffee Shop for a cup of something hot and bitter, leaving a rather short note in the journal for whoever might have missed him, though save a bare handful he cannot imagine it would be many. He does not even know if they yet remain.]

While I am pleased to have found my way back to this delightful village, I think awaking in a random bed might have been the better introduction. At least it was warm.

Fondest regards,

Zevran

[After some time spent reacquainting himself with the village's map he, warily, makes his way to House 51.]

Comments

TW for violent stuff and so forth; action done with permission

[relictusdeus]

There should have been a snide answer rolling off his tongue with practiced ease, even an uncomfortable twinge of emotion at the sound of his name on the elf’s lips. And there almost was. But fury has a way of hijacking control when it seizes him, jolting up the spine and branching out into the fingertips, a tingling, burning-red heat pulsing through blood and bone and sinew.

At the very back of his mind, he knows. He knows even as he closes the distance in a single sharp stride and his arm shoots out, his hand clamping around Zevran’s throat, that talk of magisters has little to do with him and everything to do with ideas conjured up by a mind strugglingly grasping for understanding and working to bridge mental gaps. He had done the same when he had woke bound to an unlit stake in the village square nearly two years ago. It’s why that when the world stops spinning and the dust settles, he’d forgive him for what an accidental few words have the power to dredge up.

But that Zevran could meet his eyes, and with the shadowed, haunted look of a man resigned to that fate – one that cuts too close to the bone–, say it like he expects him to force himself upon him and destroy more between them than he ever had makes his fingers tighten, tendons and muscles flexed and trembling with more than wiry strength. He brings his face close, cocked at a questioning angle, and it’s frozen into a stiff, implacable mask. Its lines sharper with the intensity that lights his eyes feverishly bright.

“Take you, will I?” It’s not easy to talk, to snarl through his teeth when his throat feels thick.

And between the rhythmic crashing of blood against his eardrums and his thoughts roiling in his mind, he can hear the whisperings of the devil growing louder, clamouring for vengeance, fueling the fire. And then comes the rebuttal, no less fierce. The little voice that begs to ask if Isaac had any right to feel indignation when he had dreamt more than once of taking Hector on a desperate whim, as if someone’s love could be forced and stolen.

His grip springs open, snapping back. Eyes shifting over the elf’s face, hurt and lost and furious and darkly inscrutable in turns as he finds himself stepping back again with the same caged-animal restlessness that has long shaken him to his bones. Then stares at his hand as if he had been burned. And then finally half-turns away.

[antivanleather]

Faces twisted in rage are so much easier to face than those that have gone cold and still. When control is lost it makes a man manic, makes them easy to judge. When they can mask it the rages is either bone deep or murderous and Zevran has no idea just how badly he has misstep here. Not yet. But he learns as soon as that hand is on his throat, squeezing the breath from him and oh. This is how he is to die, then.

This will be painful, but quick.

Despite his best efforts he can't keep himself from kicking out feebly, trying to push Isaac away, trying to suck air in through clenched teeth that is only blocked by a cruel, gloved hand. He misspoke. Misstepped. And he will pay for it as he should. Somehow, oh somehow he manages a grim smile. An assassin is familiar with death, but this won't be the first time Isaac has killed him, will it?

"Better-" He hisses, teases, taunts because he has no sense of self preservation. Swallows around the hand on his throat and forces out the words in a strained voice. "-your body than penetrated by your blade."

Oh yes, Zevran remembers that. A cold face and a quick end. A kindness?

The details are lost to him.

Air, however, is not and he can breathe and it hurts to do so. Great coughing gasps rattle his chest and the chains that bind him. Back to himself, somewhat. Less the Crow. more the Elf. "...what must I say to earn my freedom, Isaac? What is my penance?"

TW for.... the usual. The same as the other warnings in this thread.

[relictusdeus]

Adrenaline’s still flooding his veins as he stands there, shaken and still, watching through a daze as his hand finally curls into a fist and drops to his side. Like a slap to the face, it’s the question that brings him back. He lifts his head, catching Zevran’s gaze from the corner of his eye and cutting him a flat stare. Moment by moment, the elf is able to becomes someone recognizable and unrecognizable to him, and Isaac has little sense of to who - or to which side of him - he is speaking. He has gone from being an enemy to being Isaac. Though not Rosso. Something's missing -- maybe lost forever.

“Penance?” He says into the darkness, throwing the word away like a meaningless joke, and a laugh joins it. Just as low and cynical and empty. He's being mocked. He must be.

A few humans had always managed to survive the raids, he remembers. Escaping the carnage by squeezing themselves into the darkest, smallest corners of their homes and praying fiercely for salvation, only for the demon troops to come first and drag them, screaming, to the castle looming against the night sky. They became the spoils of war, four or five enough to appease Dracula for a fortnight. Isaac had been pleased to do the honours. And while patiently wiping the flat of his dagger clean, swipe by swipe, and positioning jugs beneath the humans dangling from the dungeon ceiling, he had felt their eyes lock onto him, desperate and pleading as they’d follow every minute movement. He learned to let them search his face for as long as they felt they needed to and talk if they wanted to talk. And he’d stop and listen patiently and gently incline his head, sometimes brushing their cheek so tenderly with the backs of his fingers as they’d tremble. Letting them believe that maybe, just maybe, were they to say the right words, were they to hold his gaze long enough, or beg in the way he had asked, he’d set them free.

“Such great faith you place in words to absolve you,” He remarks bluntly, sliding back into calm. His lips turn up slightly. “How I wish it could.”

Things rustle and clink and clatter as Abel turns its attention to Zevran’s belongings. Clothes and armour are searched and shifted through, all weapons set aside to form a small heap – except for a single dagger the devil takes into its hand. Isaac slinks to his servant’s side, silent and still as he draws energy from deep within himself and charges his hands with it, pale light pulsing around them. And as he thrusts his palms forward, he directs the blast of energy to the blades. The light envelopes them, promptly expanding to form a shield around them. A perfect sphere, hovering and transparent, its outline faintly visible. The same technique that had kept others from tampering with the sculptures he had left Hector.

From Abel’s open hand he slips the dagger free. Hefting it. Studying it. Pacing with it and gauging its ability to inflict pain as he does. It’s an unhurried process ending with a sharp twist of his heel and whip-like snap of his arm that sends it flying towards Zevran.

Only that the tip buries itself into the bare, earthen wall, several feet from his head. It’s the only one of his weapons he will return.

“In one minute’s time, you shall be freed from your chains and that dagger alone you will leave with. But heed me well—“

His voice dips into a lower register, every step bringing him closer. It's the Crow he's addressing now, the part of Zevran who has looked him in the eye and seen him for a soulless animal. This is the Zevran that is most dangerous. The Zevran he imagines will twist around and bite the instant he has the chance.

“Should you but think to turn your body or blade against me, I promise you, I will come for you, and there is no corner of this miserable cage where I will not hunt you down, no poison you can concoct nor trap you can set nor man behind which you might think to hide that will save you. There are creatures more fearsome than your Crows and magisters and there is nothing they stand to lose should your allies happen upon your mangled body and hope to exact bloody vengeance. The Devil is with me, Crow - and he would have me hang you by your entrails for a slip of your tongue. Remember this well, if nothing more - and count your blessings that he and I are not of one mind... even as he lives in mine.”

These boys are walking trigger warnings

[antivanleather]

Only the faithful could repent. That was what was said in the Chantry, and that was what he felt to be true. There is precious little in his life he might regret enough to wish to repent over, would perform penance of some sort to make amends for. Rinna, perhaps. However it was he had wronged Isaac, certainly. The details of whatever it might have been is lost to him for the moment but he knows. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he has done Isaac some wrong. Has abandoned him on some level. Gone back on his word in some fashion. He had misstepped somewhere on the line.

How that was and how he might make up for it he does not know. But asking for what he could do clearly had been the wrong way to go about it.

He remains silent on the wall. Watching Isaac weave his magic. Frowning at the sudden pile of his weapons being handled by the demon- no. The devil. By Abel? He knows that beast- knows him intimately and flashes of their bodies entwines race through his mind.

More pieces to the puzzle.

More clues.

This, the solitude, the misery, the muted anger. He'd said something just now in his fear to strike a nerve and that more than the knife being flung at his face has him flinching away. Any harm that came to him in this palce was justly deserved.

But.


He was not harmed.


He was to be given freedom. But for what? Out of disgust? Out of a favor owed? He cannot say, he could not know. All he could wonder was dashed away at Isaac's approach. Hard to focus with that intense gaze upon him, with that register of voice rumbling out the worst sort of threat. A warning that is richly deserved. That cows the Crow within him into something scrabbling with base fear for this is a being he could not best through combat or tricks or traps. He has never before been so terribly aware of the depth of Isaac's power and how little he could do in the face of it.

There are no words.

None.

The devil is with me, Crow. He lives in mine.

That more than anything else rings loud and clear in his mind. Isaac has the devil, a devil, in his mind. He is not alone in his own soul and that makes so much of what he'd seen fall into place. Ike is not in his right mind.

He is possessed.

An Abomination.

That makes the blood go cold in his veins and his eyes slam shut. He cannot face this. Will not face that he has lain with such a man and never known. Never thought to ask or consider.

Yup. TW: Another graphic image here.

[relictusdeus]

There’s supposed to be a retort barbed with wit or a brave laugh or words hissed in a foreign tongue. Something to undermine the threat delivered in his coldly committed way and remind him that, under layers of magic and armour, he’s as helpless and desperately needy and doomed as he had been as a child running from men and monsters. That he was a fearsome-looking but dangerously fragile thing, like a blade with an oversharpened edge. But there’s only a look on Zevran’s face of fear or disgust as his eyes pinch shut, and the twinge of bitter satisfaction that Isaac should have felt is missing too.

It was bound to happen. There had to be a limit, he tells himself. A point beyond which even Zevran, whom has known and seen more than most, was sickened by him to where he could no longer bear to look into those demon-eyes and somehow convince himself that he saw flickers of goodness and the potential for redemption in them. Compassion, understanding, human sentiment. The beliefs so many of the sacrifices had clung to before he had dragged the knife across their trembling skin and opened their throats.

It's not Zevran's fault.

“Abel,” he calls lowly into the silence and his voice sounds strange and far-away to himself, like it belongs to someone else. He touches a hand to each shackle, careful to avoid skin as he does, his gaze falling absently on Zevran’s neck. Magic crackles through his fingertips. “…Kindly free our guest and show him the door.”

It gathers the elf's clothes into its arms and turns with them, carrying the bundle halfway to the him before dumping them unceremoniously onto the floor at his feet. Arms folding across his chest, Isaac steps back and aside, inviting Abel to work open the toothed jaws of each manacle with brute force. In the time it takes for both to come free, its master will have left the chamber and returned, the front door unbolted and the protective seal temporarily neutralized.

[antivanleather]

Bloody and torn wrists are but one thing to fear. The demon so close to him? Something else. But what hardens in the pit of his stomach is knowing that whatever he has just done was the exact wrong thing. And yet he could not open his mouth to speak nor his eyes to watch, merely crumpled to the ground once freed and focused upon opening one of his packs. Salve. Healing salve and bandages. The wounds he had on him were tended to first. He had time enough to dress himself in his leathers, his boots, and pocket the knife before ducking out of the dungeon entirely.

He would return, one day. When he remembered everything. When he had the right words. When the world made sense.

[relictusdeus]

Things ruffle and rattle as Zevran digs into the pile and Isaac glances away, muscles in his shoulders knotted and eyes hooded and lips defiantly pressed thin. It’s Abel’s turn now to demand obedience through sheer force of its presence with all five of its glowering eyes turned on the elf and claws ready to snatch him by the arm and haul him onto his feet if it must. But it doesn’t come to that. Nor does the dagger attempt to find its way into the devil’s hide.

Zevran passes him and keeps going, Abel trailing like a shadow. And then, for just a short, blessed moment, all is silent.

You let him go, a voice murmurs in the darkness. You should have strangled him.

Isaac pulls in a slow breath. He lets his eyes fall shut.

He has made you weak, it continues. You grieved for him, and he mocks you. He wants you to unburden him of guilt so he no longer has to think about you and he can enjoy his life. Now he’ll go home to those he loves and they will hold him close in the way you used to. He’ll tell them what you did and you know what will happen.

The line of his jaw sharpens, nails sinking deep enough into his arm to draw a dotted line of blood.

But they’ve been waiting for a reason to turn on you. Let them fear you, Isaac. Let them curse your name.

"Let them hate," Isaac says into the emptiness, and no one answers.