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's lean into his hand had felt...nice. Alistair let his hand drop back to his side as Daylen opened his eyes and began to speak.

"Don't let me keep you from your bath." Alistair nodded, his expression still calm and serious. "Would you prefer I stand outside and listen, or..." His eyes flicked to the chair Daylen had been sitting in earlier, when he'd been bringing in the water.

"Whatever you're more comfortable with." He meant that, turning to the tub to check the temperature. Just because the rune worked, didn't mean there wouldn't be anything hinky from being in the Fade and he didn't fancy being boiled alive because it was suddenly stronger, the way his own magic seemed to be.

Of course, there was another reason his own magic might be stronger, but he refused to consider that right now.

He glanced over his shoulder to see if Alistair was settled before he started shucking out of his pants.

Alistair debated with himself for a moment, before throwing caution to the win. He settled into the chair that Daylen had been sitting in earlier, and turned it so that he wouldn't be staring directly at Daylen as the man got undress and into the tub. Otherwise, he waited, quiet and still - trying to exude an aura of comfort and safety.

He cleared his throat as he heard Daylen being to undress. "Why exactly do you owe me an explanation? "

The water caused Daylen to hiss as it settled over his wounds, the heat stinging into the various scrapes, cuts, and burns. He settled into the water as fully as he could before he answered. "You said your friend, Cousland... wasn't interested in you. I assume you meant romantically." Daylen bent his head forward and started pouring water through his matted hair.

"And you've probably figured out that wans't true for me. About the... Alistair that I knew?"

Alistair admirably resisted the urge to look over in concern at Daylen's hiss. He kept his eyes firmly on the stonework of the opposite wall, trying to respect Daylen's privacy.

"Wasn't interested is rather an understatement. He was utterly besotted with Morrigan. But yes, I had rather gotten that impression."

"Morrigan?!" Daylen sounded affronted. Aghast. He snorted, reaching for the soap and giving another small grunt of pain as he snagged it. After a moment of lathering soap into his hair and then rinsing it clean he continued.

"Well, my not being interested in Morrigan would be a similar understatement. I was just gone stupid over A-- him." It was hard to say his name talking to this other man. "It's complicated by some magic stuff that you might not be interested in, but I'll say in all the world, there was only him. For me? Only him." His voice dropped to a low, choked rasp and he fell silent again. The only sound was the splash of water and the rough scrub of the bristle brush over his skin.

Alistair listened to the splashing of water and the sound of Daylen's voice with quiet focus. He nodded silently at Daylen's statement about Morrigan, and then started slightly at the rough anguish in Daylen's voice. He turned his head to look at the mage, and his expression filled with sorrow at the sight.

"Only myse...only him." Alistair quickly corrected hismelf. "Like...soulmates, yes? Fate and the Maker linking two people together in perfect harmony." Alistair sighed, and turned his eyes back to the wall.

"So seeing me is rather like rubbing salt in an open wound, I expect."

"Yes, like that. It's complicated, but yes, soulmates. I'm not sure I'd credit the Maker, since he seems to be a real shit sometimes." Daylen shifted around, careful not to slosh the water on the floor and scrubbed his knees and shins and feet.

"Seeing you was like... There aren't words. Like being offered life again." He knocked the back of the brush against his forehead for saying it so baldly. "I'd gone to my Calling, I was about to die, the bridge was crumbling under my feet and there were dozens of darkspawn and I was going to fall and I was finally going to die and be with him and instead I didn't die and I found myself with you."

"'And here He decree'd, opposition in all things.'" The verse from the Chant had been a favorite of Leliana's - a reminder that the Maker did not solve all problems for his children, she'd said. Alistair had found it a comforting confirmation that the Maker was, indeed, a real shit.

"I've been told the Calling is a noble end to a Warden's life of service. But...then I've also been informed that the most recent round of Callings was actually caused by some blasted darkspawn magister messing around in our heads. So it honestly sounds more like shit to me." Alistair's face was dark, and tinged with anger at the thought of Corephyus and the Warden debacle.

"No one here is quite sure how people are pulled from their times and places to this corner of the Fade. I certainly feel that this place is a grand improvement on being stuck with endless diplomats..." Alistair paused and snuck a look at Daylen's face. the implication that Daylen might not feel the same was left unsaid.

Daylen looked deeply confused, or conflicted. He was staring at the scrub brush held in a slack hand, brow furrowed and mouth in a tight, thin line.

He jerked his head up at Alistair's complaint and frowned at him. "You're wasted on all those stuffed doublets and arse-lickers." He gave Alistair a worried smile. "You must have been stuck in quite the rut if this is a holiday for you."

(OOC: I am falling asleep, so I need to head to bed. We can pick this back up tomorrow. I'm on the same schedule, so it'll be iffy during the day, but I'll be around afternoon/evening. :) )

Alistair let out a bark of laughter, and rubbed at his neck sheepishly. "Not so much a rut as...just being worn down over time. It's not easy, running a country all alone, with a childhood being raised by stable hands and mabari to help you mess it all up." His tone was mocking, self-deprecating. "At least here, I get people who talk to me like I'm a person instead of a royal arsehole." Quieter, "I've rather missed being a person. And having friends."

((OOC: Sleep well! Same time, same place tomorrow! *grin*))

The ache that never left Daylen, only got worse or better depending on the day, was different. It wasn't an ache for himself. It was for the loneliness he heard in Alistair's words.

He twisted in the tub to look over at him. "Alone?" His voice was quiet. He shouldn't be asking, it was none of his. But...

"Yes." That single word was infused with an impressive amount of emotion - loneliness, frustration, anger...

"Cousland had other concerns, what with the Arling to take care of and the Wardens to manage. Everyone else had their own lives to live. I suppose the assumed that Eamon and Teagan could manage me."

There were about a thousand things Daylen could say to that. It was tricky sorting them into things he maybe shouldn't say and things that might get him slapped.

Finally he managed, "I don't know you. I feel like I do, but, well, any manner of things might be different for you. Maybe you hate cheese?" He pressed his lips together, sighing down at the floor for a moment, before looking back at Alistair from under his brows. "But if I've got it right, and Maker knows I'm half-mad and maybe this is all in my head so I could just be wrong... but if I am right, how could anyone who knows you leave you to struggle with this alone?"

He was glad, fiercely, a hard agonizing knot of it, that he was nude in a tub full of dirty water because if he hadn't been he would have been trying to touch Alistair, any way he could to ease that isolation. And that would just be so damned awkward.

"Because what you wanted, what you fought for, was your home, your family-- the Wardens, your friends, me-- no sorry, Cousland. Fuck. Sorry." He turned away again, running his hands into his damp hair and tugging at fistfuls of it near the back of his head. "But like I said, I might have it wrong. You might hate cheese, have fought for wealth and glory, and really wanted to be king so you could be mean to orphans and puppies."

Alistair stared at Daylen, his face an unreadable mix of emotions. Here was a man, who barely known him for a few hours (from Alistair's perspective, at least) who apparently knew him better than Cousland or Eamon or Teagan ever had. It confused Alistair's, frustrated him - why had Cousland not understood his desires, his intentions, like this man, this Hero of Fereldan did.

The moment of silence dragged on, verging on becoming awkward, before Alistair finally cleared his throat and said, "What kind of monster do you take me for? How could any one even remotely like me hate cheese? Let alone be mean to puppies or orphans?"

The stretch of the silence weighed down on Daylen. He should have said none of that. He waited for Alistair to leave, to excuse himself and go, and then he could just drown himself in the murky gray water he was sitting in. Easier, honestly.

When Alistair finally did speak, Daylen's shoulders twitched with a quiet chuckle. "Your hair is confusing. Led me to all sorts of conclusions." He ran his hands over his face and picked up the scrub brush again, soaping it and began trying to get at the dirt and grime all over the scarred and scabbed landscape of his back.

" My hair? " Alistair reached up and ran a hand through his hair. He had let it grow out a little longer after he taken the throne. The short spiky look that he had had during his days as a warden, useful for keeping clean and contained under a helmet, had no longer been necessary. It curled slightly now, a thick wavy mess that more than one royal hairdresser had grumped at him about.

" I rather like my hair now, though perhaps I should do something about it if it leads nice men like you to think that I am so evil as to hate puppies." Alistair tried to avoid staring at Daylen, both at the awful injuries and clean, handsome form that was emerging from under all that grime. He coughed, and forced himself to resettle his eyes on the stone wall.

"I didn't say it was evil hair." Daylen shot him a look, lips twitching in amusement. Maker's balls, that felt weird. "It's just different, and that opened up the possibility that you could also hate puppies."

There was a louder slosh as he scooted forward, arm twisting up behind him to scrub his lower back. He let out a small grunt of pain, but carried on. "Now that I know you don't hate puppies, I can say I like the hair too. It's very--" He cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. If he called it rakish he would be flirting and that wasn't... that was just awful of him. "Nice. It's very nice."

"I haven't grown a goatee over night, have I? I thought that was the usual sign of evil." Alistair stroked his chin, grimacing at the stubble he found there. He'd been dropped into Skyhold with nothing but the clothes he'd worn before he'd fall asleep - respectable clothes, but lacking in pockets and basic necessities like a shaving knife.

Alistair shifted in his seat, debating with himself whther he should..."Do you need help?" The words were out before he could stop them, and he immediately blushed and covered his eyes with a hand. Oh, how stupid he sounded.

Daylen froze at the offer, sitting very still. He did. He had too many small wounds that he'd paid no attention to at all when he'd got them, and he needed to get the filth off his skin before he treated them with elfroot. He couldn't reach his entire back, and the gouge on his side where the hurlock's spear had glanced off his ribs was incredibly painful every time he moved around.

But the way he wanted the help wasn't about any of that. And that made it wrong. Right?

"Yes, please," he answered finally. "I can't reach everywhere and it would be a shame to die of some horrible flesh rotting infection because I couldn't wash my own back." He kept his head tucked as he held up the short-handled brush.

The scent of the soap was stronger than the grime he'd been carefully scrubbing away, and underneath it all he was lean, corded muscle shifting under skin that had seen too much abuse in recent years. Aside from his injuries there were plenty of old scars, silvery against his the light tan of the rest of his skin.

Alistair looked at Daylen in surprise. Somewhere, a little voice in his head crowed happily; he hurried tried to step on that voice and school his face into calm and helpful, rather than excited or...whatever his brain was trying to insist. No, he mentally told himself. Daylen is off limits - that isn't fair to him.

"That would be incredibly unfortunate, Alistair murmured quietly in response. He knelt on the stone behind the tub, just on the edge of Daylen's vision. He took the brush from Daylen's hand, praying his hand had not lingered unduly, and set to work. He gently scrubbed the remaining grime from Daylen's back, occasionally dipping a hand into the bath water and scooping some up to help rinse the suds away.

Daylen felt the sweet-sick twist of relief as Alistair moved closer, almost like when he'd first met his Voice in Ostagar, except this wasn't real. It was a trick of this place, the Fade, and any relief he felt couldn't, wouldn't last. The strange muted quality of the tug toward him, the desire to lean into his hands, like he could just be imagining it from wanting to feel something other than sucking misery and dread so bad.

Still. Daylen sat very still, a soft sigh escaping his throat as Alistair worked, and he arched his back a little as the scrubbing went on, trying not to let himself like it too much. Failing yes, but still trying.

"Anything that needs stitches back there?" he asked amiably enough, though there was something strung too tight underneath it.

Alistair surveyed Daylen's back, finally free of grim and soap suds. The mage had a nick in one shoulder, and a spear graze that skated along his ribs and tapered off towards his back. There were some scrapes and bruises, including a wicked looking imprint of a club at the bottom of one shoulder blade. Otherwise...Alistair allowed himself one moment to admire the corded muscle in the man's back.

He cleared his throat. "No...I think the slice out of your shoulder is too small to benefit from stiches. Though this might..." His hand reached out, a single finger tracing the edge of the spear graze.

As his hand touched Daylen, his awareness hummed slightly. Alistair was coming to associate that pleasant feeling with Daylen's magic - a little like being drunk, like being in warm gentle sunshine. His awareness of magic had never been this sensitive before - it usually took active magic to trigger it, like the trick with his shirt earlier. Alistair couldn't really bring himself to care - it was too nice, after so long without friendly physical contact.

The brush of Alistair's hand made Daylen let out a soft, "Ahh," barely more than a breath, but his muscles twitched all over his side and back, his skin raising in gooseflesh he couldn't control, the hair right up to his nape suddenly prickling.

He had to swallow hard two, no three times, Maker save him, before he could murmur, "If it's just that one, with some elfroot and a little more food I might be able to heal it myself, actually." He thought he could maybe do it right now, but the thought that he was drawing strength from the other man, the King of Ferelden, and not his Voice and beloved who had been dead for more than half a decade damn it, wasn't to be considered.

He wasn't considering it.

"Is there a towel?" he asked quietly, turning his head to look back at Alistair, blue eyes lyrium bright for a moment, before he glanced down, looking almost... shy. Worried? He was a jumble, and the prickle and tingle of Alistair's touch had changed into a shiver that couldn't be explained away by cooling water, because of the tub's bloody heating rune.

"If you're sure...my sewing has improved dramatically from the first time I had to stitch someone up. Wynne insisted."

Alistair pulled his hand away slowly from Daylen's side slowly, reluctantly, and then stood. For a moment, he'd thought...no, Daylen was just cold, or hurting from being touched so close to a wound.

He crossed over to the basket of supplies, and pulled a large, fluffy towel from within. He turned walked back towards the tub, paused and looked from the towel to Daylen, and then with another flushed expression, held it out the mage while politely averting his eyes. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and said, "Sorry, no warming rune here. Just a plain, dry towel."