fadewalk | RP: Daylen Amell

A clean shirt, probably too large. A pair of pants and a belt to hold them up. Clean socks - Maker, he knew how much he'd missed those while slogging through the Deep Roads with Cousland. Boot polish, and wood polish for the man's staff , and soap. Alistair inhaled the green, foresty scent and smiled to himself. His best memory of Orzimmar was sinking into the huge, sunken tub in the bathhouse attached to the Tapster's Tavern, finally able to relax after the long trek back from Caridin's Cross. He hoped that Daylen would appreciate the find.

A handful of basic lyrium potions, and another of elfroot potions went into a small pouch, and was set atop the pile. Alistair surveyed the supplies with a careful eye, and then nodded. Should try not to overwhelm the man, he thought and then winced. Too late. "I do that just by existing, apparently."

The supplies went into a basket, and Alistair set off to find Daylen, a look of determination on his face.

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Daylen had planned to find a bed to fall into. But after puking up bile in a flower pot in the garden he'd staggered to a door that led to a dusty storeroom and fallen into a heap in the corner.

He'd been unable to stop the shuddering, hating every weak empty hungry piece of soul.

When the tears finally stopped he fell asleep hunched against the wall, staff discarded at his feet. He knew he should move, figure out where he was and what in the void was going on, but he couldn't find the strength to stand. Do he slept and dreamed of a dead man's smile.

Alistair was dismayed to find nothing but empty rooms and beds in the guest wing. Where had Daylen gone? A frightening thought occured to Alistair - had the man's wounds been more serious that he'd been able to see? Should he have insisted on helping Daylen get to a comfortable, safe place to rest? Cursing himself, Alistair left the basket of supplies in the room closest to the guest wing's entrance and began to search for the mage. (He tried not to think about the fact that the room he had dubbed Daylen's was also the room next to his.)

When Alistair finally found the man, his heart lurched in his chest. Huddled in a heap in the corner of a dusty, cold storeroom, obvious exhausted and oblivious to the state he was in. Alistair shook his head, angry at himself. He shouldn't have let the man wander off alone.

Alistair got down on one knee, just within arm's reach of Daylen, and reached out to tap him gently on the knee. "Daylen? Daylen, you should wake up. I can't imagine you'd prefer this cold floor to a warm bath and a comfortable bed."

"Carry me."

The words were out before Daylen was awake, no startling at the touch or voice. He was a grumbly waker, but when he came awakeenough to be aware of his surroundings his head snapped up, knocking his head against the wall.

"Ouch." He rubbed his hand through his dirty hair and glared at Alistair, though it seemed incredibly half hearted. "Can't just leave me to wallow in peace, hmm?

Alistair blinked in surprise at the request, and then winced as Daylen knocked his head against the wall. The concerned look remained on his face as Daylen glared at him, though he tried to paste on a friendly smile.

"You did say that I could try to find you something less ogre-splattered. I even found you some soap, if you like. Alistair stood, and offered Daylen a hand to get up.

Daylen's eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and her rubbed at them with his thumbs before looking at Alistair's hand with a sigh. "Well, if there's soap." He reached out to let his hand slide into the one offered and just like before, when pressed his face into his neck like an idiot, he was nauseous with how right it felt.

He stood with a groan, and dropped his hand quickly. "So how much do I have to pay you to keep you from telling everyone you know that you found the Hero of Ferelden crying in a broom closet?" He bent to retrieve his staff and cocked an eyebrow at Alistair.

"A smile would do nicely." The words were out of Alistair's mouth before he could stop them. He blushed, his ears ruddy red, when he realized what he'd said. Damnit, he wasn't meant to be flirting with the man - he'd as much as said that his Alistair had been...close to him. It wasn't fair to Daylen to treat him with anything but kindness.

"The guest rooms are just down this hallway. I found you a shirt and some clean pants along with the soap, and a few odds and ends you might appreciate. Boot polish and that sort of thing." Alistair looked Daylen over and then gave him an apologetic smile. "Though the clothes might be a bit big for you."

Daylen's face wasn't really taking all the orders his brain was trying to give it. At least not in the right order. He wanted to laugh and weep and shout unkind things at Alistair's bumbling almost-flirting.

Daylen looked down at the clothes he was wearing so he could let himself grimace at them instead of scowling at Alistair. He didn't deserve that, the sweetness of his nature so intrinsic that he was just trying to help a complete stranger who looked like shit and smelled worse.

"Thank you. That's... extremely thoughtful. Would you mind pointing me there?" His mouth twitched, crooked and wry. "I'm not going to lie--" He might punch himself in the mouth if he tried to lie to that face. "--I don't think I'd make it much farther than crawling under the nearest bench on my own."

Alistair's expression was concerned, though he visibly checked himself from leaning into Daylen's space and offering the man an arm to lean on. "I was going to suggest I walk you there....Skyhold is honeycombed with odd passage ways and connected rooms. I've found it's very easy to get lost around here."

Alistair paused, and then looked apologetic again, along with the concern. He pitched his voice low, quiet - so that if he wanted to Daylen could pretend the offer hadn't happened. "I could, if you need. Carry you, that is."

Daylen's hand trembled as he gripped Alistair's shoulder in a hard press of fingers, just a touch too tight to be simple acknowledgement. He had to force himself to let go as he brushed past toward the doorway and out into the hall.

"How many times have you been lost here?" He shot a glance over his shoulder. Maker, ever time he looked at him, he'd forgot how it was a kick in the stomach. A glance was all he could manage. How similar could they be? Maybe it was just the face, and the voice, and the kindness, and the way his skin smelled and... how much would be too much? How much farther to enough?

"Me? Lost multiple times? Never. Whatever gave you that idea?" Alstair fell into step next to Daylen, slow and steady, directing the mage with gestures and, once, a gentle touch to the shoulder, towards the room where he'd stored the supplies.

He held the door open for Daylen with a practiced, courtly bow and a self-deprecating grin. It was a gesture he'd been taught back when he was first learning to be suitable for court - the Orlesian instructor would have been proud, he thought.

"Just a hunch." As they walked he seemed to weave a little, but it was really just Daylen's exhausted steps following the tug, the ghost of his lost bond, that some part of his brain had decided without asking his opinion, could be fixed by hugging Alistair again. His brain was an idiot so he ignored it.

Daylen missed a step at the bow, caught himself before he could fall on his face. Well that was different at least. A difference. His Voice had bowed like a duck wears a dress.

Very poorly.

He rubbed his knuckles over his breastbone, trying to ease some of the ache there, and moved into the room, glancing around. "I don't suppose there's an actual bathtub?" he asked, voice wistful.

"Ah...no. Not that I've seen." Alistair looked around the room with a sheepish expression, and then brightened. "Wait here a moment!"

He ducked out the door, and his hurried footsteps could be heard retreating down the hallways. Not too much later, his footsteps at a much slower pace, he maneuvered a large, unwieldy hip bath into the room.

"I knew there had to be something nearby! I'll have to pull some buckets from the well in courtyard, but that shouldn't be too hard." Alistair's smile was bright, proud. "It even has one of those water heating runes, so no need for a fire."

Daylen had stood, staring at the door with a bemused expression for about a minute after Alistair had left, fighting the ache in his throat, the panicked flutter in his chest. What if he doesn't come back? He shook his head, jaw set as he started stripping off his armor, starting with his gloves and gauntlets.

"It isn't him. You have to fucking stop this."

He was out of his leathers, stripped down to just his trousers when Alistair shouldered back in, peering suspiciously at a hole in his shirt that mapped to an ugly gouge across his ribs on the left side. He looked up, eyes widening when he saw the tub and Alistair's gleaming smile.

"You didn't have to-- Maker's ass, you are..." He broke off, shaking his head, answering smile a tiny thing, but so gentle and earnest when he added, "Thank you."

Alistair looked puzzled for a moment, and then shook his head with a gentle smile. "Of course I did." His tone turned joking. "Can't use the soap otherwise!"

Alistair's eyes settled on Daylen's torso, noting the various scraps, bruises, and gouges with widening eyes. A moment later, he shook himself, a blush warring with an embarrassed expression on his face. "Ah, yes. Right. Well...there's some bread and cheese in the basket, if you're hungry, as well as some potions in that little black pouch. I'll just...go get water. Right, water."

Alistair forced himself to walk slowly from the room, instead of bolting in embarrassment. Maker's breath, he was going to make an ass of himself with that man. Luckily, Alistair found two buckets and a yoke in the storeroom, and buckled down to get enough water from the well to the hip bath for Daylen to get clean with.

The way Alistair's eyes had lingered, the way he'd blushed and bolted... it made Daylen feel unsteady and ill. He was being so kind, so generous and helpful even though Daylen was a unsightly, unbalanced stranger and then he'd gone and made him uncomfortable by taking his bloody (literally) shirt off.

Now he was hauling his water.

Daylen dropped onto a chair with a hunk of bread to gnaw on, forcing himself to go slow. He hadn't eaten much except for deepstalkers and deep mushrooms in... weeks. He wasn't sure how bread, let alone cheese was going to sit. While he waited he started thumbing through the journal he'd found in his things, skin growing pale and waxy as he read, trying to make sense of everything that was in there.

Some of the names he knew. Some he didn't. Leliana, Anders, Cullen fucking Rutherford. Sigrun and Dagna and... he felt his stomach lurch and had to set the bread aside and focus on his breathing to keep from puking again.

Three of them. Three Alistair Theirins. And the one he had been imposing on? As near as he could tell that was Eamon's fondest wish, the King of Ferelden.

He threw the journal to the floor with a silent snarl and leaned over, elbows resting on his knees, bruises and cuts, scrapes and scratches on his back pulling and complaining as he arched, trying to force himself not to break down completely. Which was where he sat when Alistair returned with the first set of full buckets.

The buckets were large, and Alistair had insisted that he not neglect his strength training after he'd taken the throne. He made a guess that two, maybe three trips with both buckets full would fill the hip bath. The mechanical motion of filling the buckets and settling them across his shoulders on the yoke gave him a moment to think.

Daylen made Alistair's heart ache. He reminded him of Cousland, shocked and devastated when he'd realized that Morrigan had made good on her promise (threat?) to disappear after the battle with the Archdemon. The man had been inconsolably angry, and had almost worked himself into a stupor, had driven himself into an awful state of self-denial and pain. It had taken Alistair, Zevran, and Wynne to convince Aedan that the world hadn't ended, and that he needed to take care of himself...for the sake of his friends, at the very least.

Alistair wished there was something more he could do to help Daylen. He had a suspicion that his very presence was part of the problem - he imagined it was rather like being confronted with a a demon, not quite right but oh so tempting all the same.

But...he liked the man, all the same. From what he'd seen, under all that grime, frustration, and grief, Daylen was a good man. A sharp sense of humor, and an inner strength he envied. Alistair's mind dipped into a moment of self-pity - he wasn't sure he'd have been able to withstand the sort of psychic beating Daylen had withstood. "Not that there is anyone from back home who could star in such a role for me." He huffed, and then resolved to put that ember of anger away for later examination.

He stepped sideways through the door, his back towards most of the room as he tried to be careful not to knock the yoke or drop the buckets, and happily said, "It shouldn't take more than two trips - you'll be able to cleaned up in no time!"

Daylen looked up slowly at Alistair's broad back as he entered with the buckets. He felt suddenly, unaccountably angry. At himself, at Eamon, at Alistair? He didn't know. He just felt so fucking furious.

Of all the worlds that apparently touched the Fade, out of all the possibilities why had it been his that saw Alistair dying on top of Fort Drakon?

He shook his head, scrubbing at his face and forced himself to stand, to step closer to Alistair, and the relief that each inch gave him made it so hard to resent him for not being him.

"So, does the King of Ferelden draw baths for every Hero of Ferelden who wanders by?" he asked with a soft drawl, managing to sound prickly anyway. He reached to help steady the yoke so that they could be unloaded. He was still bare from the waist up, and barefoot on the carpet.

Alistair flinched at Daylen's saying his title, the buckets sloshing just a little. He steadied himself, and tried to look over his shoulder at Daylen. His face was serious, a little grim even, as he asked, "How did you..."

His eyes caught on the journal, splayed open on the floor, and he frowned. "Oh." He quickly shifted his grip on the yoke and lowered the buckets to the floor, feeling Daylen's hands help with the heavy weight. When the buckets were safely on the floor, Alistair turned to unhook the yoke, putting him face to naked chest with Daylen.

There was another moment where he began to blush slightly, before he hurriedly moved to empty the buckets into the bath. Alistair's voice was quiet when he finally responded, "If the King of Fereldan ever forgets that he once drew his own baths like every other normal person, I will be incredibly upset with myself."

The way Alistair's demeanor changed, the flinch, his quieter tone, made Daylen feel wretched.

"Hey." He tried to catch Alistair's eyes when he straightened from pouring the buckets into the bath. He wanted to say something that wouldn't be intrusive, because as much as he felt like he could see the whole of Alistair's life if he'd been pushed onto the throne alone, he didn't know him. "I'm sorry. I just... this is so hard. And I'm a bitter asshole who feels about twice as old as I am. And you should probably ignore me."

He reached up a hand, raked his hand through his hair and gave it a tug, and then turned away shoulders slumping.

"You're not old." Alistair blurted out. "And...you have every right to be bitter. I...I can't imagine how you must be feeling." Alistair smiled, lopsidedly. "The only thing I have to complain about is being guilted into ruling a country after I'd explicitly said I didn't want to. At least I wasn't..." He wanted to say alone, but that seemed cruel and to be honest, wasn't really true, either.

Alistair gathered up the buckets and the yoke, and moved towards the door. He hesitated in the doorway, and said, just a above a whisper, "I hope I'm not making the situation worse."

Then he ducked out the door.

Daylen started the water heating, found the soap, rummaged through his gear until he found the knife he was looking for and a whetstone. It would do for scraping the scraggly gunk off his face. He needed something to occupy his hands, make him focus.

Alistair deflecting, making it okay that someone had forced him onto the throne against his wishes, whether that was Eamon or this Cousland he'd mentioned...

It made him want to hit something.

He scooped up a basin of the now steaming water in the bath and settled in front of the silver mirror on the vanity to sharpen the knife. Slow, methodical strokes, the careful metallic rasp set a measure to his thoughts. He was no longer in the Deep Roads. The music of the Calling had faded away. He was comparatively safe, had food, supplies, and was about to have a bath.

Drawn by hand by the double of a man who had once mapped every inch of his skin with swordsman's hands in a deep copper tub in a mansion in Denerim. Daylen's hand was shaking as he brought set the knife down and started to wet and lather his beard.

He should just explain and then maybe Alistair would run the other direction and for however long Daylen was still breathing he could feel relief and like the biggest idiot in the world that he'd driven him away.

Alistair felt guilty for running away from the conflict. It had been nice to forget that he was someone more than just plain Alistair while he was here - a vacation, just as his Warden double had suggested. Even with all the sorrow and frustration and stress surrounding Daylan... Alistair sighed, and scratched at his hair, messing up the soft curls.

He drew another pair of buckets and settled the yoke on his shoulders again. He really did hope that he wasn't making the situation worse for Daylen - the man deserved some peace, not Alistair's hopeless, helpful-puppy-floundering.

He tried to move quietly through the door to the room with the second set of buckets, but managed to knock the door...and spill one of the buckets over most of his back. The water was icy cold, pulled from the depths of the mountain beneath the castle (supposed to be beneath the castle, at least), and Alistair couldn't prevent a surprised yelp from escaping his mouth.

Daylen had managed to get the worst of the scruff from his cheeks and mouth, but the knife was having a hard time over the more sensitive skin of his neck. He had rinsed his face and was whetting the blade again when Alistair's yelp startled him up off the stool.

He turned toward the door and seeing the poleaxed expression on Alistair's face, complete with the wet shirt that was now clinging to his back, he chuffed a sudden laugh. It was rusty, and swallowed as soon as it sounded, the smile fading into a small, lopsided smirk. "You are the most graceful."

Without the terrible patchy beard, his jaw is sharp and strong, mouth with a sweet turn to the corners that seems at odds with the way it tends toward frowning. He crossed toward Alistair, reaching to help with the buckets, trying to help him untangle without getting any more water down his back.

Alistair chuckled back, and he leaned gratefully into Daylen's hands as they worked to untangle the yoke and buckets from the door. "Me? I'm as graceful as a one-winged butterfly. You couldn't tell?" One the buckets were free, Alistair straightened up and grimaces as his cold, wet shirt clung to his back and ripped down the back of his pants.

He grabbed the pair of buckets and dumped their contents into the bath. The water was soon steaming, the fire rune embedded in the side of the copper bath humming brightly in Alistair's head as it worked. "Well, that looks cozy."

Alisatir looked up at Daylen and smiled softly. The mage looked better already, even with just a simple shave - more comfortable, less desperately angry. Alistair realized, after a moment, that it probably looked like he was staring, and he cleared his throat. "I'll just...let you get cleaned up." H paused, and then continued, a concerned tinge to his voice. "Would you like me to hang around nearby in case..." He forced a bit of levity into his voice, trying to make it less serious sounding. "In case you find another bench and you sudden have the urge to crawl under it?"

Daylen shook his head in a slow sweep, trying to find the right words. Part of him, the stupid, selfish, desperate part, wanted Alistair to stay. But because it was stupid and selfish and desperate...

He shook his head with a little more intention behind it. "No, I'll be... well, I promise to sleep on top of the bed, how's that?" He gestured toward the supplies. "And you brought me everything I needed." There was a slight catch in his voice there, but he hurried on.

"Here, turn around." He grabbed the back of Alistair's shirt, giving it a sharp shake and the tiniest burst of fire magic and the cloth was dry and warm as it settled back against his skin. "Better?"

That had worked better than he'd expected. Shirt and pants both? He rubbed his hands against his pants.