fadewalk | RP: Daylen Amell

Skyhold was almost as extensive as the palace in Denerim, if one counted all the palace gardens and twisting servants quarters. Every room seemed to lead into another, and eventually back again in a giant circle. This meant, of course, that Alistair was hopeless lost. Again.

He had intended to walk back to the room that he had been deposited into the first night (day? Time didn't seem to have much meaning here). He'd left the armor that he had borrowed from Cullen's stockpile there after deciding (foolishly perhaps) that the majority of people stuck in this mess with him were of the trustworthy sort. And it was heavy, uncomfortable stuff - lamellar was not meant to be made of low-quality iron plates, nor was it meant to drag on the shoulders like a poorly-weighted pack. He'd made up his mind to get it and return it to the stockpile for something more comfortable (in case of demons or hostile strangers or whatever else this strange not-Fade cooked up), only to find himself thoroughly lost yet again in the maze of rooms and hallways.

"Of all the infernal-" Alistair stumbled through a door and into the great hall yet again. At the opposite end from where he'd started. He sighed, run a hand through his hair (now tousled in frustration), and stopped in place to try and calm down.

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Since Daylen had appeared in this large, vaulted hall he'd come to several conclusions about the vagaries of fate, exactly what kind of bastard the Maker must be, and how of all the places of the Fade to become shipwrecked he was in a castle that was dripping with motifs of the Chantry.

He was pacing in front of the throne, gesturing angrily and muttering ill-conceived invective. "You'd think, here I am, a Warden, finally with a good reason to die and I can't even have that?" He tapped at his temple with a knuckle. "So blighted stupid. I didn't do anything. This isn't because of me. Why does this shit always fall in my lap?"

When the door at the opposite end of the hall opened he whirled toward it, reaching for his staff and coiling a ball of flame into his palm before he had even finished turning.

He looked like a man fresh from weeks of trying to die in the Deep Roads, bloodied, filthy, pale and worn thin. There were also the deep shadows of grief under his blue eyes, worn around his mouth, but it became a bared-teeth snarl when he saw Alistair enter.

"Are you so stupid to think that will work, now, here? Have some bloody dignity!" The fireball in his hand pulsed and he frowned down at it, distracted for a moment.

Considering he had been the only person in the great hall the last time he left it, Alistair was more than a little surprised to hear someone yelling from the far end. He turned to look, and was immediately on his guard - a mage, human and male, disheveled and more than a little angry. Alistair's head buzzed with the pull of magical energies coiling around the man, and he winced, one hand going to his head even as the other was raised in a gesture of surrender.

"Dignity is something I do not have in copious amounts, I'm afraid. You'll have to try again later." Alistair supposed that if he had to run, he could dodge out the main doors....but he'd seen Morrigan throw such fire balls with lightning speed - he wasn't sure he'd make it without being at least a little singed.

Daylen had been seeing demons wearing Alistair's face night after night for nearly a decade. They'd tried bashful, they'd tried cheeky, they'd tried seductive, they'd tried tearful. There had been days where he'd nearly given in, nearly opened a vein, opened his mind, and just let them waltz in. To have him back. To have him back.

This one was... either very clever or very stupid. He wasn't the same, wasn't the way he remembered him. He was the way he might have become had he lived long enough. "I find demons wearing his face to be extremely tiresome, and I'm really, really tired. See?" He lifted the fireball as if it were incredibly heavy. "I can barely hold onto it! So unless you want to live the rest of your miserable existence as an extremely disfigured desire demon, you need to knock that shit off. Right. Now."

Daylen paced slowly down the runner toward the demon, feeling the hiss and sizzle of the fire, again scowling as it seemed to flare ever so slightly as he got closer.

The buzzing feeling he'd always associated with strong magic in Alistair's head increased as the mage got nearer, and he found himself unconsciously backing away from the man, wincing from the intensity. He took a couple of steps before he forced himself to stop, and look the man directly in the eyes.

What he saw made his heart ache for this man - whoever this mage was, he'd suffered a great deal. there was bloody and ash and other unnameable things all across his ripped clothes, and heaviness and weariness about his features that Alistair hadn't seen since the days of the Blight. Alistair was reminded of Cousland, pushing himself ever harder towards the Archdemon at the top of Fort Drakon.

"I can't change who I am, as useful as that would like be right now. I'm not a demon - just a person, trapped here like you are." Alistair paused, and then looked confused. "Wait, you said...my face? You've seen demons wearing my face?"

When their eyes met Daylen stopped advancing, his face going paler under the dirt and the scruff that hid the line of his jaw. The man's eyes were perfect, hazel and clear, with no hint of slitted cat-pupils or violet schlera and penny-bright irises. They were Alistair's eyes.

Daylen swayed as the fireball guttered. He had maintained it for far longer than he'd thought he had the strength for. "Yes, demons. Always demons. What kind are you? You aren't desire. They'r usually..." He narrowed his eyes, peering harder, leaning forward. "...tawdry." The corner of his mouth pulled in distaste and he began rifling through his pockets, hoping there was one last lyrium potion somewhere. If he had to fight something like pride... or stronger?

Well, at least then he'd get to die finally. He just didn't want his death to be wearing his beloved's face.

Alistair snorted ungracefully. "Tawdry is putting it mildly. Can you imagine me in that slinky get-up? I'd trip and embarrass myself for certain."

The fireball guttered, and his headache lessened. Alistair sighed softly in relief, rubbing a temple with one hand.

"I'm not a demon. I'm not sure how to prove that to you, as I'm guessing you have a lot more experience with them than I do. But if you've seen demons wearing my face in your nightmares, I'm willing to put good money this:" He stepped forward slightly, hands still raised in an obviously peaceful gesture. "You are the Hero of Fereldan, or a Champion of Kirkwall, or maybe even an Inquisitor. And now you are trapped here in the Fade like myself and the others here. Drawn here from whatever story or time you belong to." Alistair paused, and then looked amused. "Rather like that metals in that meteor sword you had made kept getting drawn to that lodestone we found in the Wilds."

If the man before him had been a demon, Daylen would be lost. He stood there, lips parted, practically hypnotized listening to Alistair speak. He hadn't any words to describe it, any reason for it, but the closer they got to each other, the more he listened, the more he knew that this was him.

"Alistair." He barely breathed the word, looking up at his face, taking another unsteady step forward. "We buried you with Starfang. It was... why do you..." His head reeled and he staggered, legs giving way and hitting his knees with something like a sob. It was too dry, too brittle as his head hung and his knuckles pressed into the ground.

Why did Alistair not know him?

"Hey now!" Alistair was down on his knees in an instant, just within arms reach, his hands outstretched, hovering - he wasn't sure this man would want him to touch him, so he resisted.

"I'm sorry - I don't know who you are. Though obviously you know me." Alistair shook his head, and dropped his voice to grumble at himself, "Of course he knows you, you idiot, he said he'd seen your face."

Louder again, speaking to the mage again, "I don't know what happened in your time, but...I'm still alive in mine. At least, I hope I am. I suppose this could all be an awful form of punishment in the afterlife for being as impious as I have been."

Damn it, stay focused. Softer this time, his face intensely earnest and open, "I am so sorry. I can't imagine how this must hurt right now. I wish I could help."

Daylen was trembling, but when Alistair's hands reached for him he flinched toward him. He bit the inside of his cheek until it was as grated raw and bloody as the rest of him, stilling that impulse. He could feel... something. An echo of a whisper, and the wound in Daylen's soul where his Voice belonged was no longer hemorrhaging into the ether, but... it wasn't the same. But Maker he just...

He looked up, twitching, trembling, just wanting to fall against him, and met Alistair's eyes, faces close as they knelt on the floor. "Trapped in the Fade with the very image of my fucking Voice who doesn't know me from Andraste? One of us has to have pissed off the Maker royally." He lifted a hand, pressed it over his eyes for a moment as his shoulders shook.

"This is embarrassing. I'm embarrassed. This is worse than when I proposed to you at Ostagar." He took a ragged breath. "You really aren't him."

"Proposed...oh." Alistair's blush spread across his cheeks and down his neck, turning him a very familiar shade of red. He shook his head, slowly, sadly. "No, no I'm not the Alistair you know. My Hero, Cousland...he wasn't interested in..." Alistair coughs, embarrassed. "...that," he finished lamely.

However, he'd seen how shaky the man before him was, how he flinched towards Alistair's open arms instead of away. And that made Alistair's decision for him. In a swift motion, he'd gathered the man into a gentle hug, tucking him into the safe hollow of his neck and chest and arms. Alistair murmured quietly, just for the mage to hear. "I might not be your Alistair, but I am still myself. And I can't imagine myself ever wanting to see a friend in this much distress."

Daylen went into Alistair's arms with only the tiniest noise of protest, not quite gruff enough to be a grunt, not needy enough to be a keen. A whimper? When Alistair finished speaking he shook his head, face pretty much buried in his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He let him have a minute of his skin, filthy as it was, touching the skin of this man who was not his Voice. Not exactly.

But Maker, his arms, the scent of him? All of it felt so good, so safe it took him an unforgivably long time to push him away. "I'm sorry. I'm such a bastard. Not like you're a-- nevermind. Shit." He pinched the bridge of his nose and then pushed further away. "I have to go. I can't do this." His hand came up to touch Alistair's cheek though, making him such a little liar.

He struggled up onto his feet, grabbing his staff to help steady himself, and then backed up two reluctant steps. His eyes couldn't settle, shifting onto the other man, then away, restless, face twisting with guilt. "You're... I'm so stupid. And sorry." He had never apologized to anyone that much in his entire life but this... was anything but a normal situation.

He needed to find someplace to vomit and then faint, he rather thought as he picked a door at random and limped toward it.

(OOC: I have to head to bed. But this scene is breaking my heart and I don't really want to stop. D:)

Alistair leaned into the gentle touch of his face, a quiet sigh escaping him. He let the man pull away, let him stand up on his own, though he didn't want to. It had been so long since he'd felt...wanted, helpful, a whole mess of different emotions. His expression was full of sorrow - sadness for the pain the man must be in and for not being able to help.

Alistair remained kneeling on the floor, not sure if he should go after the man or let him have his desired moment of privacy. His voice was soft, and honest, pitched to be sure the man could hear.

"You probably need to rest - There are plenty of rooms available. The others here told me to just pick one that seemed comfortable. I....I'll see about getting you some new clothes. If you like."

Alistair finally rose from the floor, groaning slightly at his knees (getting older and not in the good way). He paused for a moment, and then made a frustrated noise. "I...damn it, I'm sorry, but I don't even know your name."

((OOC: I know, right! So much tragic squee. But sleep is also important. We can pick back up here tomorrow, or start another thread tomorrow if you like.))

Daylen paused to listen as Alistair spoke, staring at the door. Less than an hour ago be was about to be torn apart by darkspawn and now a man looking like his soulmate was offering him a clean shirt. . Daylen would have laughed if he couldn't hear the pain in his voice .

Apparently Alistair was always kind. He nodded slowly. "Daylen. Amell. I wouldn't throw you out if you found me something with less ogre on it to wear. It seems like it might be a few days before i get back to my Calling." With that he slipped out the door.

(OOC: maybe a new thread so we can get a Daylen cleaned up before any more sad snuggles might happen. Gnight!)