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

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.