Then again, maybe not. He could try to prompt it again, later, When the hurt is not so great and the wound not so sore.
For now he waits until Cade seems to have spent his anger. "What harm is there in shouting? I am not hurt, you are not hurt, and it seemed as though you, perhaps, had a great deal you needed to get off your chest, yes?"
Cade has so much anger, it would be impossible to spend it all in one rant; but on top of that is the ever-present burden of his doubt, his guilt, his self-loathing. As quickly as it came, his anger flees, giving way to just... desolation. It seems to weigh him down as he turns back to return to his chair, his demeanor docile but weary.
"I don't know what to do," he softly confesses, and, noticing the apple he had left on the table beside him, he picks it up again to take a bite. Better to occupy his mouth with this than more stupid words.
"It is complicated." Nothing is simple in life. Less so when Alistair is involved- for all that the man loves easy answers where no one is hurt and knows well enough this is impossible, it is what he wants. What truly cannot be.
"I have spoken to the builders- you will not be tasked with work in the Valley. Avoidance, for now, is likely the wisest course." They are both of them too raw, too angry to be much good to one another. "But know that if you ever feel the need to yell or pace or rave, to pop the seal and release some steam? I am available to listen. Provided you understand that I might do the same with you from time to time."
Being who he is, Cade is inclined to once again take the news as negatively as possible-- great, so there's another place that's off-ilmits for him, because he might be attacked or just... isn't wanted. Fine. Good. But he's too hurt to be angry again, and something else catches his attention. He looks up from the floor to Zevran, uncertain. Vent... to him? Confide in him? The last person to do that was, well, the person they've been discussing. Twenty years ago.
"...I... that's fine," he stammers, unsure of how to deal with the... what is it, responsibility? "I'm... not much good, but..." He trails off awkwardly. "...if you want."
"Good, because I have to complain about Alistair to someone and everyone else is so thoroughly enamored with him or half certain we are secretly married that they either do not take me seriously, assure me that it is not all that terrible, or offer to duel him in my honor for cheating on me." Which is absurd for so many reasons he cannot even begin to list them.
"Apparently he is candy to the Dalish. I have never seen an entire clan decide 'oh, this shem is adorable and sarcastic, we must protect him!' like he is a small woodland creature. Yes, he is quite cute, but he is not a child. Except when he acts like a child. Which is often." He sags in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. "Cade- I am an assassin. I am one of THE most dangerous men in Antiva. I am rebuilding a guild of new assassins from the ground up to eliminate the Crows and what did I spend my day doing? Telling him to write an apology letter and mean it. The man is ridiculous. Why is this my life."
This is so far beyond what Cade was expecting that he actually looks a little dazed by the sudden onslaught. As with their other arrangement, he hadn't anticipated that when Zevran said 'we should do this', he meant right at this exact moment, right here. Having just begun to utilize someone else in this role, Cade has zero idea of how to fill it himself. So he sits there looking surprised, taking in everything Zevran has said until he remembers he should probably say something.
"...um," he murmurs, pauses, then says, "...what would you want to do? ...if nobody judged you for it?"
This is weird. This is so weird. And, completely unexpectedly, he starts to feel a little bad for Alistair. Just... not bad enough to shut it down.
"Tell him to grow up? Tell him the world does not revolve around his soft, easily wounded emotions, that the world is colder and more cruel and not all of us GOT warm stables with dogs to sleep in and that, perhaps, terrible things can still happen when men that are supposed to take care of children do terrible things instead." He grumbles into his palm. "I would like to handcuff the two of you together and make you deal with one another, but that will solve nothing."
Or would it?
"I wish him to be more serious, but not too serious. I wish him to think, perhaps, beyond himself, the wardens, and me. Everything else falls to the wayside because he does not care and, unfortunately? That seems to have included you and that is not fair. I wish I could simply slap the childish petulance out of him- but then he would likely never trust me again." Which is a terrible thought, honestly. "He is not so bad, is Alistair. But there are times when I want to wring his neck."
Further validation arrives with this, and Cade's caution is dissipating at the same rate that his guilt is rising. He doesn't even know why, and perhaps doesn't want to know. He does make a face at the idea of being cuffed to Alistair. He would hate that with anyone, a constant invasion of personal space, but with Alistair in particular it would be a nightmare. He opts not to say so, since Zevran has moved on and Cade isn't about to remind him of his idea.
Cade considers the man's words for several moments, and has several ideas for how to respond, but finds that he doesn't want to voice any of them. He doesn't know what he's talking about, he has no authority. "...maybe he'd.... I don't know," Cade begins, and trails off, rubbing the back of his head.
"Stick his nose in deeper without much thought or consideration to his own neck or whether or not his nose is even wanted? It is a very fine nose, this Theirin nose, but it does not need to be everywhere." It really does not need to be here. Even if healing this wound would do them both some good.
It isn't until Zevran starts waxing poetic about Alistair's nose that a question occurs to Cade, and he knits his brow delicately as he watches Zevran's face. "If... you don't like what he does, why are you his friend?" It's an honest question, from someone who has had little reason to see the world in anything but black and white. He has no point of reference for having a complicated friendship, because until recently 'friendship' has been a concept so nebulous that he isn't even certain he knows what defines it. He only knows what it isn't.
"...because for every thing of him I find vexing, there is something I find endearing. I am annoyed that he meddles- but that he bothers to meddle? Shows that he cares. And he can be taught to back away when I need space. He is, more than anyone I have ever known, the most honest man I have met." For all his sarcasm and secrets- none of which he kept from Zevran- Alistair has never outright lied to him about anything.
It isn't in his nature.
"And the first to look at me and see not a Crow, not an elf, but me in a time when even I was not certain who that was. Oh, he hated me on sight, of course, but he saw me! That is more than most humans bothered to offer."
This is all news to Cade, but then, he hasn't known the man for a good twenty years.
He watches Zevran quietly, torn between sympathy and the knowledge that Alistair can look at a literal assassin sent to murder one of his companions and forgive him, befriend him, but can't spare the same magnanimity for an out-of-touch childhood friend. When Cade had first seen him here, he had hoped. He had hoped for a while, actually, and then it had soured so quickly.
"I still think you ought to speak to one another and attempt to resolve...whatever it is that has tone sideways. I have not known him to be quite so deliberately awful to one that might consider him a friend- or something close to it. Normally when such things happen and there isn't money, sex, or blood involved? There has been a miscommunication." People talking solved things. Who knew? "But- I think it may need to wait, yes? You and he are still sore with one another. You justly so and he...Maker only knows."
Almost, Cade looks like he might protest. But he doesn't, allowing Zevran to continue speaking, and instead ducks his head to nod wearily. His anger and resentment is giving way to that familiar empty ache, the knowledge that regardless of what kind of stupid spats he gets into, the outcome will always be the same. "...is it even worth it?" he asks, his voice quiet but strained. He keeps his eyes averted from Zevran's, now looking down at his hands.
"..." Now there is a question. Zevran leans back in his chair, arms crossed as he gauges Cade's expression and posture, considers the fight he'd come across and what little he knew of their friendship in childhood and... "Honestly?"
More people might be too much for Cade to handle, too many expectations, too many demands- and Alistair has a long habit of being demanding. But he is also terribly supportive when given cause and- there is too much here for him to judge. "I do not know. Childhood friendships- I never had my own and as such I do not know what has gone amiss, here. Only that something apparently has for how you both fight like cats."
Cade shakes his head, lifting it to reveal that he doesn't look quite so dismal as before; instead he looks... still strained, but almost amused. Desperate, worn down. "No," he says quietly, and now offers Zevran a glance, if only to see what his expression is before he continues. "...not just him." He rubs the back of his neck, pushing up the curls that rest against it. "If I were to walk off the battlements, few would notice, and fewer would have a problem with it." He lowers his hand again, raising his eyes to Zevran's. "Am I wrong?"
"Perhaps whoever has to clean your corpse off the stones the next morning." He himself could not say 'do not do this thing' when it is a thing he himself considered not terribly long ago. It is a rather final gesture but- a man's life is his own. Or. At the very least it ought to be.
"Beleth, perhaps, might be upset. Alistair would find reason to be upset, or smug, or...find a way to make it his fault. Or your fault. For someone that says he is so simple he can be annoyingly complicated. Nerva would notice. The templars would likely take offense to the fact that you have done so, they are terribly good at that." He does not list himself as- well. He is uncertain if he wants his opinion to be the thing that keeps or pushes Cade over that ledge.
Not if he fell into the chasm outside of Skyhold, all mountains and sharp rocks and snow. No one would find him there, no one would even look for him.
Beleth, hah. Alistair, even moreso. Nerva perhaps, and it's almost amusing to imagine that he could disappoint the Templars even in removing himself entirely from their jurisdiction. It's... heavy. He's thought about it countless times, and yet only now ever spoken about it.
"It's stupid," he admits, in a near-whisper, with a half-laugh. "I don't know why I don't." His arms fold up and around him as he curls his body forward slightly. "...it scares me." For someone as tormented and miserable as he is for every waking moment, he finds it almost laughable that he's still too cowardly to just do the thing.
"It is my understanding that people tend to want to keep living if given a choice." It is a solid rule with few exceptions. Being one himself...he does not like to think of it. Today is a brighter day rather than a darker one. Taking that step off into nothing holds no true appeal at the moment.
He has no desire to disappear.
"Death is frightening. Pain all the more so. What if you don't die? What if you lay there, broken and bloodied for hours, days?" Unlikely, but stranger things have happened. "Perhaps you feel there is something yet left to be done- I cannot believe I just said that. No. Fear is what keeps you from doing it. And I suppose that fear is a good thing."
Fear of his own death had been beaten out of him ages ago. "For this you are speaking to the wrong person, I think."
Cade nods, and then immediately shakes his head, briefly cupping his face in his hands. He curls his fingers, takes a deep breath, then lowers them again. "I thought I'd rather die than stop being a Templar," he says, "...but instead I'm just... stuck somewhere in between both." He hugs himself again, glances at Zevran, and is suddenly struck by how pathetic he sounds. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, "I... this isn't what we were talking about."
"Why?" Ah, yes Zevran. Use the same tactic that worked so well when Wynne turned it upon you a decade ago. What could possibly go wrong?
Still the question is set and in for a copper, in for a sovereign. "Why is it so vital to you that you be a Templar? Is it a matter of faith or needing to be of use in some way?"
Things he truly cannot wrap his mind about. Faith is a thing for other people, a salt for their diet. For Zevran it is like...tarragon. Excellent when he has need of it, but most often? He can do well enough without.
Through all his trials at Skyhold, the one thing about Cade that has never wavered is his faith. Or at least... his determination to try to uphold the tenets of his faith as dictated by the Chantry. Even while screwing up unimaginably. Even while destroying himself.
His eyes actually tear up a little when he looks back at Zevran, his eyelids red and the rest of him tense with the sort of misery that starts to build slowly when he's left with his thoughts for too long. "...I've never been anything else," he says quietly, his voice quavering, "I don't... if I... if I'm not this, I'm nothing." He might be nothing anyway.
Oh. Shit. Tears. He has never been terribly good with tears- the usual means he can think of to mitigate them involve physical contact which Cade does not want, not truly, and thus he is forced to remain in his chair and wonder where exactly he lost track of this conversation.
Perhaps he ought to have kept his mouth shut about Alistair.
"It can be...a terrifying thing. Trying to find a new purpose...to untangle your life from that which you once knew and- that...is not at all what you need to hear is it? You like being a Templar. You like this life." Such as it is.
With every assertion Zevran makes, Cade becomes less and less convinced of his own dedication. When the elf has finished speaking, he finally just shakes his head, covering his eyes with one hand. "No," he says in a quiet, shaking voice, "I hate this life. I hate everything it's ever been." Somehow simultaneously exhausted and right on the very edge of his nerves, he glances around the room. "My one job is to do the Maker's work, and I can't do it, not the right way. I ruin everything I touch." He gives a light, mirthless laugh, then abruptly calms himself again, looking apologetically at Zevran. "I should go," he says weakly, and gets to his feet, "you didn't ask for this."
And now he is no longer out of his depth, he is in over his head. The bottom of the river looks very nice, very comfortable. He should become accustomed to it for it seems there is no finding his way back to the surface with Cade.
"A question, then, before you go." Because this is- Cade is a mess, this he knows. Perhaps a greater mess than he can ever untangle but that will not stop him from trying. But this is more than he expected. More than, perhaps, Nerva understood. "What is it that you want?"
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For now he waits until Cade seems to have spent his anger. "What harm is there in shouting? I am not hurt, you are not hurt, and it seemed as though you, perhaps, had a great deal you needed to get off your chest, yes?"
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"I don't know what to do," he softly confesses, and, noticing the apple he had left on the table beside him, he picks it up again to take a bite. Better to occupy his mouth with this than more stupid words.
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"I have spoken to the builders- you will not be tasked with work in the Valley. Avoidance, for now, is likely the wisest course." They are both of them too raw, too angry to be much good to one another. "But know that if you ever feel the need to yell or pace or rave, to pop the seal and release some steam? I am available to listen. Provided you understand that I might do the same with you from time to time."
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But he's too hurt to be angry again, and something else catches his attention. He looks up from the floor to Zevran, uncertain. Vent... to him? Confide in him?
The last person to do that was, well, the person they've been discussing. Twenty years ago.
"...I... that's fine," he stammers, unsure of how to deal with the... what is it, responsibility? "I'm... not much good, but..." He trails off awkwardly. "...if you want."
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"Apparently he is candy to the Dalish. I have never seen an entire clan decide 'oh, this shem is adorable and sarcastic, we must protect him!' like he is a small woodland creature. Yes, he is quite cute, but he is not a child. Except when he acts like a child. Which is often." He sags in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. "Cade- I am an assassin. I am one of THE most dangerous men in Antiva. I am rebuilding a guild of new assassins from the ground up to eliminate the Crows and what did I spend my day doing? Telling him to write an apology letter and mean it. The man is ridiculous. Why is this my life."
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Having just begun to utilize someone else in this role, Cade has zero idea of how to fill it himself. So he sits there looking surprised, taking in everything Zevran has said until he remembers he should probably say something.
"...um," he murmurs, pauses, then says, "...what would you want to do? ...if nobody judged you for it?"
This is weird. This is so weird. And, completely unexpectedly, he starts to feel a little bad for Alistair. Just... not bad enough to shut it down.
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Or would it?
"I wish him to be more serious, but not too serious. I wish him to think, perhaps, beyond himself, the wardens, and me. Everything else falls to the wayside because he does not care and, unfortunately? That seems to have included you and that is not fair. I wish I could simply slap the childish petulance out of him- but then he would likely never trust me again." Which is a terrible thought, honestly. "He is not so bad, is Alistair. But there are times when I want to wring his neck."
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He does make a face at the idea of being cuffed to Alistair. He would hate that with anyone, a constant invasion of personal space, but with Alistair in particular it would be a nightmare. He opts not to say so, since Zevran has moved on and Cade isn't about to remind him of his idea.
Cade considers the man's words for several moments, and has several ideas for how to respond, but finds that he doesn't want to voice any of them. He doesn't know what he's talking about, he has no authority. "...maybe he'd.... I don't know," Cade begins, and trails off, rubbing the back of his head.
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"If... you don't like what he does, why are you his friend?" It's an honest question, from someone who has had little reason to see the world in anything but black and white. He has no point of reference for having a complicated friendship, because until recently 'friendship' has been a concept so nebulous that he isn't even certain he knows what defines it. He only knows what it isn't.
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It isn't in his nature.
"And the first to look at me and see not a Crow, not an elf, but me in a time when even I was not certain who that was. Oh, he hated me on sight, of course, but he saw me! That is more than most humans bothered to offer."
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He watches Zevran quietly, torn between sympathy and the knowledge that Alistair can look at a literal assassin sent to murder one of his companions and forgive him, befriend him, but can't spare the same magnanimity for an out-of-touch childhood friend.
When Cade had first seen him here, he had hoped. He had hoped for a while, actually, and then it had soured so quickly.
"That's good," he says, his voice a bit hollow.
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"...is it even worth it?" he asks, his voice quiet but strained. He keeps his eyes averted from Zevran's, now looking down at his hands.
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More people might be too much for Cade to handle, too many expectations, too many demands- and Alistair has a long habit of being demanding. But he is also terribly supportive when given cause and- there is too much here for him to judge. "I do not know. Childhood friendships- I never had my own and as such I do not know what has gone amiss, here. Only that something apparently has for how you both fight like cats."
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"No," he says quietly, and now offers Zevran a glance, if only to see what his expression is before he continues. "...not just him."
He rubs the back of his neck, pushing up the curls that rest against it. "If I were to walk off the battlements, few would notice, and fewer would have a problem with it." He lowers his hand again, raising his eyes to Zevran's. "Am I wrong?"
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"Beleth, perhaps, might be upset. Alistair would find reason to be upset, or smug, or...find a way to make it his fault. Or your fault. For someone that says he is so simple he can be annoyingly complicated. Nerva would notice. The templars would likely take offense to the fact that you have done so, they are terribly good at that." He does not list himself as- well. He is uncertain if he wants his opinion to be the thing that keeps or pushes Cade over that ledge.
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Beleth, hah. Alistair, even moreso. Nerva perhaps, and it's almost amusing to imagine that he could disappoint the Templars even in removing himself entirely from their jurisdiction.
It's... heavy. He's thought about it countless times, and yet only now ever spoken about it.
"It's stupid," he admits, in a near-whisper, with a half-laugh. "I don't know why I don't." His arms fold up and around him as he curls his body forward slightly. "...it scares me." For someone as tormented and miserable as he is for every waking moment, he finds it almost laughable that he's still too cowardly to just do the thing.
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He has no desire to disappear.
"Death is frightening. Pain all the more so. What if you don't die? What if you lay there, broken and bloodied for hours, days?" Unlikely, but stranger things have happened. "Perhaps you feel there is something yet left to be done- I cannot believe I just said that. No. Fear is what keeps you from doing it. And I suppose that fear is a good thing."
Fear of his own death had been beaten out of him ages ago. "For this you are speaking to the wrong person, I think."
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"I'm sorry," he says quietly, "I... this isn't what we were talking about."
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Still the question is set and in for a copper, in for a sovereign. "Why is it so vital to you that you be a Templar? Is it a matter of faith or needing to be of use in some way?"
Things he truly cannot wrap his mind about. Faith is a thing for other people, a salt for their diet. For Zevran it is like...tarragon. Excellent when he has need of it, but most often? He can do well enough without.
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His eyes actually tear up a little when he looks back at Zevran, his eyelids red and the rest of him tense with the sort of misery that starts to build slowly when he's left with his thoughts for too long. "...I've never been anything else," he says quietly, his voice quavering, "I don't... if I... if I'm not this, I'm nothing." He might be nothing anyway.
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Perhaps he ought to have kept his mouth shut about Alistair.
"It can be...a terrifying thing. Trying to find a new purpose...to untangle your life from that which you once knew and- that...is not at all what you need to hear is it? You like being a Templar. You like this life." Such as it is.
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"No," he says in a quiet, shaking voice, "I hate this life. I hate everything it's ever been." Somehow simultaneously exhausted and right on the very edge of his nerves, he glances around the room. "My one job is to do the Maker's work, and I can't do it, not the right way. I ruin everything I touch." He gives a light, mirthless laugh, then abruptly calms himself again, looking apologetically at Zevran.
"I should go," he says weakly, and gets to his feet, "you didn't ask for this."
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"A question, then, before you go." Because this is- Cade is a mess, this he knows. Perhaps a greater mess than he can ever untangle but that will not stop him from trying. But this is more than he expected. More than, perhaps, Nerva understood. "What is it that you want?"
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