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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"'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."

Daylen was going crazy. That was the only explanation for considering letting Alistair stitch the wound, whether or not he needed him to, just so that he'd have his fingers on his bare skin. He was blushing by the time Alistair returned with the towel, and wasn't that just a picture?

Two men, gently bookending the age of thirty, blushing at each other.

Giving a soft huff and a heave, he managed to stand with minimal grumbling. The hot water had loosened knots and soothed aches so he could even rise from that position without help. Thank blessed bloody Andraste.

He took the towel, letting that tiny spark of magic fly that would make it warm and fluffy. Stupid, childish cantrips that he hadn't thought to use in years, and he was flicking them about like they would impress somebody. He ducked under the towel to rub it over his head, hiding his blush, and then wrapped it around his hips as he stepped out of the tub.

"You are ridiculously thoughtful," he grumbled, shooting Alistair a sidelong look that was almost a glare, just a little too soft.

Daylen must have used another warming magic, because the space between his ears hummed for a moment before fading away. Alistair shook his head slightly to try and clear the sensation - it really was an exceptionally pleasant feeling.

At Daylen's look and comment, Alistair grinned disarmingly. "You really do make that sounds as if it were something bad. Would you rather I was inconsiderate, and left you cold and drip-drying?" There was a mental image there that was both humorous and...very appealing. Alistair immediately felt guilty, a flash of it on his face before he buried the expression under a lopsided smile.

Alistair settled back into the chair he'd vacated. He eyed the tub, and then stretched. "I'll try and haul that outside in a moment." he paused, and then groaned. "It'll be heavier with the water - I'll probably manage to make a mess of myself trying to move it, damn it."

Oh no. Daylen almost said those two words out loud at Alistair's smile. He had to look away quickly. It was... a lot. The sudden rush of warmth that had parts of him that had only been wretched with agony until they had finally gone numb and silent for so long flushing with feeling again.

"Well, if you left me cold and drip drying, or you know, sleeping on the floor of a broom closet, you wouldn't really be you, would you?" His tongue was getting clumsier. Maker, he was tired.

He went over to the pile of supplies and fished out a vial of elfroot, shaking it and then cracking it open. He downed the potion with a grimace, shuddering as the crawling sensation as his more minor cuts and scrapes closed. "You don't have to. I can take care of it in the... later." He rummaged some more and pulled out the trousers Alistair had found, tugged them on over his slim hips and belted them sloppily.

"Can't stop being considerate and thoughtful now. I have a reputation to keep up." Alistair joked. He settled back into the chair, his posture getting sloppier as he relaxed. A decade older and a sudden, kingly-education wiser, and Alistair still preferred to slouch or sprawl when he had the opportunity. He'd spent enough time standing at attention, or posing dramatically for the inspection of others - he'd take the time to unwind while he had it.

And being around Daylen was relaxing - the subtle, soft him of magical energies and the man's humor...as well as being easy on the eyes. Even if it Alistair did continue to feel guilty about it. His eyes slid shut, enjoying the calm, quiet moment.

When Alistair's eyes closed Daylen took the opportunity to look at him, to really look, searching for differences that would make this easier, clearer. That would convince whatever part of his mind or body that was so desperate to latch onto him, his lost Voice, that it was mistaken.

There were differences. Age, for one. There were lines that were... studious, distinguished on his achingly familiar and beautiful face that hadn't been there a decade ago. Stupid things as well, like longer hair and the fact he was a bit stubbly.

Daylen blinked when he realized he'd paced closer, was near enough to touch him. This wasn't... good. He couldn't let himself believe it was good. He should be dead in the Deep Roads, not starting a new chapter in the book of heart break and pining.

"Hey. Sorry, but would you help with this?" He gestured at the wound on his ribs that had started to bleed again once Alistair was looking. "I don't think I need it stitched, but I can't hold it closed and heal it at the same time."

Alistair started, just a slight jump, when he heard Daylen's voice much closer than he had expected. He hadn't heard the man move - too wrapped up in the peaceful moment to notice. He looked up at the man, paused for a moment as his mind caught up with his ears, and then nodded. "Of course. You only have two hands, after all. Unlike our Witch of the Wilds, with that creepy spider shapeshift."

Alistair's hands hesitated, hovered over Daylen's side for a moment, before gently settling on his ribs. Alistair's eyes were locked on Daylen's face, alert for any serious signs of discomfort as he helped to hold the wound closed.

Edited Date: 2015-08-22 04:21 am (UTC)

Oh Daylen was a liar. To himself mostly. That he was asking for help when he could have made do with a tight bandage, two more shots of elfroot, and then his own clumsy fumbling to close the wound. But he'd found himself wanting to know, wanting to know for sure if Alistair made a difference.

And when his calloused fingers closed over his ribs, pulling the skin so that the edges of the wound met, he knew. His own eyes closed as he pulled his mana, easy, not quite the silk it had once been, but also not a fight with the sucking void inside him. He passed his hands over his own skin, letting the cool blue light of the spell ease out and into his flesh, urging it to knit closed.

It was a good cast, better than he had any right to expect, the scar looking weeks old when the light faded. His head spun though, and he tried to stagger away. "Dizzy," he whispered thickly.

The two men were close enough that the cool light of the spell lit up Alistair's face as Daylen's hands passed over his wound. Close enough that the pleasant, nerve-stroking hum of Daylen's magic was like a tidal wave crashing over him. It resonated in space behind his eyes and Alistair couldn't prevent his eyes from slipping closed again, and a soft, pleased groan from escaping his lips.

When Daylen stumbled, Alistair's eyes snapped open. In a smooth, swift, unthinking motion, he stood and caught Daylen's shoulders, pulling the Mage towards him so that if he fell, the only way he'd fall was into Alistair. "Hey now, no dizzy. Keep your feet planted - the room will stop spinning soon, just take a moment." His voice was soft, gentle, concerned.