Voicemail / Appointments

[antivanleather]

Threads that don't fall into posts or logs, sneaky private gatherings or midnight rendezvous. Whatever your fancy.

Please indicate the type (Written, Voice, Action) and the Date.

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action

[antivanleather]

Take a deep breath.

[He'll not be able to take another. And the night's air is perfect. Crisp and cool and simmered in the smoke from the nearby fire, the wind just so that Isaac would get the warmth of it along with leather and oil from Zevran's kit. One last breath for them both and he does not want to do this.

Part of him, vicious and vindictive and petty, tells him to make it slow. To make Isaac feel every inch of the blade as it goes in. As recompense for nearly killing Jack. For frightening him. For things that were not under his control.

He squashes that voice, grits his teeth, and reaches up with his free hand to hold Isaac's shoulder.

It takes surprisingly little force to stab a man. He's been doing it for years. Even with the breastbone at this distance, with enough pressure a good shove would handle everything.

He barely feels it crack under the kneenly honed point of the knife. With little more than a quick shove, shoulder to bicep to wrist, reluctant, murderous intent blooms and twines and does it's bloody work.

It's less than the beat of a heart between the moment where Isaac is breathing and the moment that Zevran has the dagger hilt deep in his chest. The one time he is doing the impaling, and it's like this.

That skittering voice in the back of his mind is silenced. Revere the dead. Respect them. He does not look Isaac in the eye but he listens. Every rattle and sigh, every last twitch before the soul escaped that lean, intimately familiar body, he holds. Catalogs and filters away. Wraps up and tucks with every other memory of someone he had to kill that he did not want to see dead. As Isaac goes limp, they all go limp, Zevran steps in and embraces him one last time. Lowers him to the ground with all the respect he can offer a fallen comrade. He doesn't apologize. Isaac did not want any more apologies.

He simply lowers his friend. His first, true friend in this place to the ground, stares at the fire. And weeps.]

action (tw: graphic imagery)

[relictusdeus]

[Isaac breathes.

He’s been told he ought to be burned alive at the stake. To have the Pear spring open inside his screaming mouth until he chokes on blood and broken teeth, and then thrust in again to tear through his insides, death coming not by the wounds gouged by brutal force but by the infection that would set in. Such is what witches and sodomites deserve.

And it’s what he knows he deserves. Not as a sodomite or a witch, but as a devil who has wreaked so much havoc. It’s selfish of him, too, to have chosen how he wishes to die. Each and every person he had killed, innocent or guilty, had hopes and dreams and ambitions of their own. Some had had loved ones; others had spent their days alone. He had never given them the luxury of choice, ending it all out of fear, out of the need to satisfy his thirst for bloody vengeance, out of the need to further his misguided, futile search for approval and favour and love from a master who hadn’t cared for such ideas, let alone for him.

Unlike the sharpened stake that had come at him so long ago, this does not miss its mark, and all he can think as the hilt slams into him, metal jamming into meat and bone, is that it’s too good for him. The air’s punched out of him and he manages a strangled croak, the pain bleaching his mind a blinding white. But there’s something keeping him from slumping back. A hand. Zevran’s hand moving from his shoulder to press up against his back, easing him down as his body trembles and chokes and dry-heaves all too briefly, struggling lungs denied the chance to snatch at air. It’s the easiest he’s ever had anything.

Zevran’s touch and the ground beneath him fade away, and as he’s falling into vast, empty silence, there’s a small flash of realization like a flare in the night.

this is

love]