"All the more reason to thaw him out, yes? We shall commiserate about the unforgiving southern winter." There's a moment when he looks back over his shoulder and considers remaining. Sleep does not come easily to either of them- there is the same understanding of why. Alistair the dreams, Zevran the ache. But...it would invite things best left alone. Thoughts he'd laid to rest a decade ago that were easier to put from his mind when the only contact he had with Alistair was through letters or the odd visit.
He could remain, and it would be foolish. A knife that cuts. He knows better. With a wave and dip of his head, he slips into the shadows to, indeed, find Pavus and his tent and his bedroll. There is more wine drunk and idle chatter than anything truly sordid but- well. Assumptions shall be made.
***
He scouts to the north as expected of him. Keeps ahead and guides even though anyone that knows him (Alistair and everyone that followed him across the Hinterlands and Fallow Mire) knows full well he is a terrible scout and tracker. Give him a city, that is what he knows. All this endless white is blinding- but he walks through the days and makes the rounds at night, going from fire to fire to speak with The Bull, to flirt with Dorian, to make certain Sera isn't bored outside of her mind and causing mischief. Conferring with the Advisors, listening to Mother Giselle. Finding quiet moments to, perhaps, revisit his broken and distant relationship with the Maker privately, going over the old canticles in Antivan that he learned as a child.
Not avoiding Alistair but not lingering either. Until they have somewhere safe? He cannot rest easily and that would worry the Warden. A week they spend traveling north and 'soon, I promise, son' Solas whispers at this last meeting before he peels away in the pre dawn and gawks at the perfectly formed (albeit in need of some repair) fortress. Marvelous luck. Highly suspicious. But he is too grateful to have somewhere, to glad to have a destination to think on it for the moment. They set up stalls, claim rooms, light dusty hearths. The advisors mumbling and glancing at him emphatically, the murmurs of 'savior' skittering along his skin until he feels fit to fling himself from the battlements just to free himself of the weight of their expectation.
He hides in the stables, finally. Tucks himself up in the rafters with a bottle of pilfered Antivan Brandy and tries very hard not to think of what this will mean. What more they could possibly want from him.
no subject
He could remain, and it would be foolish. A knife that cuts. He knows better. With a wave and dip of his head, he slips into the shadows to, indeed, find Pavus and his tent and his bedroll. There is more wine drunk and idle chatter than anything truly sordid but- well. Assumptions shall be made.
***
He scouts to the north as expected of him. Keeps ahead and guides even though anyone that knows him (Alistair and everyone that followed him across the Hinterlands and Fallow Mire) knows full well he is a terrible scout and tracker. Give him a city, that is what he knows. All this endless white is blinding- but he walks through the days and makes the rounds at night, going from fire to fire to speak with The Bull, to flirt with Dorian, to make certain Sera isn't bored outside of her mind and causing mischief. Conferring with the Advisors, listening to Mother Giselle. Finding quiet moments to, perhaps, revisit his broken and distant relationship with the Maker privately, going over the old canticles in Antivan that he learned as a child.
Not avoiding Alistair but not lingering either. Until they have somewhere safe? He cannot rest easily and that would worry the Warden. A week they spend traveling north and 'soon, I promise, son' Solas whispers at this last meeting before he peels away in the pre dawn and gawks at the perfectly formed (albeit in need of some repair) fortress. Marvelous luck. Highly suspicious. But he is too grateful to have somewhere, to glad to have a destination to think on it for the moment. They set up stalls, claim rooms, light dusty hearths. The advisors mumbling and glancing at him emphatically, the murmurs of 'savior' skittering along his skin until he feels fit to fling himself from the battlements just to free himself of the weight of their expectation.
He hides in the stables, finally. Tucks himself up in the rafters with a bottle of pilfered Antivan Brandy and tries very hard not to think of what this will mean. What more they could possibly want from him.