ombranera | Open RP Post

Cade keeps his head low and he just listens, silent and considerably calmer, despite the subject matter. It is unexpectedly comforting to hear Zevran talk about it like this, as a thing that happened and that is now over. Better yet, that he was able to find relief from it, in the form of closure.
Still red-eyed, but with curiosity and empathy having overtaken his fear, Cade shyly directs his gaze to Zevran. "I'm sorry," he whispers, as though even talking about it to someone is a shameful secret, "...that that... happened to you."

"My condolences to you as well." There are worse things. Zevran knows this, has seen them, has lived a few of them- but saying as such has yet to help anyone that knows of this particular misfortune of his childhood. Those that know of the brothel make that assumption there- he corrects them. It happened, to be certain.

It simply didn't happen in the brothel. Technically, not a lie.

"You feel helpless and become angry, yes?" He has seen that, lived that, moved through it for having no other option save failure. And among the Crows? Failure was death. Not the best way to get around it, not the kindest- but he is not a terribly kind man.

Cade offers a solemn nod, looking down once again. He doesn't have the words for it, it happened too long ago, but more than anything the situation made him afraid. Of people, of things of which the Chantry disapproved, the Chantry itself. Of himself. A dog that knows only fear is more likely to bite.
"It was my fault," he murmurs, haltingly, forcing himself to say something. "I was... different. ...am different." Inherently sinful, corrupted on a base and inextricable level. Everything that's gone wrong, he's brought on himself.

"Bullshit." Immediate and firm. "You were a child."

As was he at the time and you cannot hold a child responsible for the actions of a perverse adult. "The fault lies with him."

The harshness of the word makes Cade flinch, even if it's not meant to insult him. "No, I..." he begins, but he trails off. Deep down, he that Zevran is right; in a way he has always known, and never wanted to admit it, never had anyone there to tell him he was mistreated and not just... special. Singled out, chosen to be the private student of Brother Flavius, elevated above his classmates and, in the process, isolated from them. It was a great opportunity, one that delighted his parents back in the Free Marches.

"...he was a good teacher," Cade says feebly, "and I was... I was lucky to be chosen by him." He's said as much to himself for many years, but it never quite works.

"Is that his excuse, or yours?" A wonderful thing to be raised up, to be favored. It is not so large a thing in the Crows when a master takes interest- Rufio had been one to teach lockpicking and pickpocketing and of course he paid Zevran mind. Of course he had been impressed, wished to teach him. Of course none of that really mattered at the end of the day. Zevran, at least, never truly bought into such things.

He had spent enough time in the brothel to know what men like that might want. Even if he had no way of knowing what it actually was beyond the abstract, nor what it might do to him after.

The lessons weren't so bad. They did happen. It was afterward that the door would be latched and he would be told it was time for their other exercises, a mandatory ritual before he was allowed to return to the other children and his other lessons. It was confusing at first, but he became used to it. It was part of his penance, one of many ways to express his devotion to the Maker. He was a dutiful and pious boy, and Brother Flavius was charismatic, well-liked among the students and the other brothers and sisters of the Chantry.

"...mine," he decides, in the same low voice, but his look is uncertain. He draws his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them, eyes going distant. "I was a good student," he continues, another thing he's told himself for years-- that had to have been the reason he was chosen, didn't it?
"...I stood out. I was his favorite." It was the only time he'd ever been someone's favorite.

"I do not doubt that you were a good student. I do not doubt that you were bright or that you were skilled. But I will never sit here and listen to someone that has endured what we have endured and listen to them take the blame. He was a man grown. He knew better, held this perversion above his duty as an instructor, and used you." An ugly thing- and not at all what he thought he'd be discussing. Keeping his voice level is-

Not so difficult a thing. He is removed from the memories of grasping hands and curt orders. Do as you are told or be punished.

Never had it seemed like an award for good behavior.

Never was it kind.

Here Zevran has him cornered, and there's no way Cade can argue with it. A man grown, like he is now; afraid to be in the same room as a child, becoming anxious by simply seeing one, because what if...?
What if the perversion transferred through contact? Is he helplessly destined to derail a child's life and destroy his self-respect, as he himself was derailed and destroyed?

The mere thought is like a dagger in his heart. He purses his lips, a tear or two beginning to stream from his eyes. And he nods, because he has no way to talk around it.
Not that he hasn't already made a fool of himself, but he ducks his head to press his eyes against the blanket on his knees so the elf won't see him cry again.

Apparently when wrapped in the trappings of religion and faith, such a thing can cut all the more deep. Or, perhaps, and far more likely- Cade has never had to face this thing in a way that bore much thought or discussion. Zevran frowns and inches closer, one hand raised gently.

"May I?" No sudden movements, no contact without permission. The lack of that is what ruined them both, after all.

At the sound of Zevran's voice, Cade lifts his gaze again, and sees what he's doing. It actually takes him a moment to deliberate on whether or not Zevran may; and then he gives another small nod in the affirmative.
All the same, he steels himself for it. He doesn't like to be touched, doesn't like to have anyone in his personal space at all.

It's a careful thing, the brushing back of Cade's hair. A sexless, harmless gesture. Something kind and grounding that Rinna did for him after those sessions. That she did for him every day he came back a little more broken until he broke the man back.

"If you want me to stop, say so and I shall."

Cade can't resist a flinch when Zevran's hand first meets him, but he makes an effort to allow it. He nods to Zevran, indicating that he understands, and continues to sit quiet and still, brow furrowed pensively as the man strokes his hair.
It's not so bad. He kind of likes it, actually. He can't remember the last time he was touched so.. kindly. Perhaps he hasn't since he was a young child.
In truth, the whole situation is more kindness and understanding than he's been shown.. possibly ever, and it's coming from someone who was in the process of threatening him. He doesn't know what to make of it.

Slow and easy. Little by little he inches closer, much as Rinna had for him years ago, until he is able to settle an arm across Cade's shoulders. Small things. Grounding things. Innocent things without intent. "Is this acceptable?"

The limits of this thing are Cade's to draw.

Cade's shoulders are impossibly tense. He has actually begun to shiver lightly as Zevran moves closer, but he doesn't stop him. He's determined to manage this. He just met this man personally for the first time, but already he's afraid of disappointing him, pushing him away by being odd and unpredictable, the way he does with everyone else.

He nods.

"Alright." It is not the most comfortable position, but it need not be. It is more about settling Cade than it is his own issues, even while he turns the puzzle that is this man around in his head. Take the weapon from the man, it does not solve everything. Anger and stress making him lose time? He has seen it.

At the end of that road is death, madness, and a mess. The Templars would look poorly, the Inquisition would take a hit. Better to find a way to manage this- but how is he to speak to his superiors of such a thing? Likely they do not know.

No, this. This falls to him. For some reason.

While he thinks his hand continues to card through Cade's hair, slow and soothing. Either he will reach his limit and tell him to stop- or he will relax. Who knows which will come first?

Speaking to Cade's superiors would likely yield a similar answer: they don't know. Nobody knows what to do with him. If he were a dog, he would have been put down years ago. They can't keep him locked in a cell for the rest of his life, just in case he does something again. If they send him away, cut off his lyrium supply, he'll go mad and die alone. It is merciful of them to keep him around, but he is a useless weight that drags on the Order and he knows it.
Remaining out of sight and out of mind is the best compromise, as far as he's concerned. Nobody has had a problem with it so far.

It's only when receiving this gentleness that Cade realizes how desperately, achingly lonely he is. He manages to relax slightly, with a subtle sigh, when Zevran's fingers brush the top of his neck; nobody has even spoken to him for days, let alone given him positive attention. Despite how uncomfortable this is, he finds himself wanting it to continue, if only to maintain the illusion that he is cared about.

Eventually, his doubt gets the best of him. "...why are you doing this?"

"Because if left alone you are a danger to others and to yourself. If you have another outburst, if you lose time like that again? You might kill someone or be killed and that will cause trouble and discord the Inquisition cannot afford." There is no reason to lie, here. This is done less out of the goodness of his heart and more a desire to not have the Inquisition fall down around his ears.

He has made a home here and would rather not have that taken from him because of infighting.

"Tell me what you need, so this thing will not happen again." He will do what he can to see it done.

And just like that, the residual shame returns. If he knew the answer to this, he would have set to work on it already-- there is nothing he wants more than to stop being... this.
"...I don't know," he softly admits, speaking to the ground, "I don't... ever know. What to do." A strained smile appears, and might look charmingly self-effacing if he weren't so miserable.
He hesitates for several moments, then continues. "When I'm not..." he stammers, "...when I'm not with other Templars, I get... lost." And afraid, always afraid.
The smile seems to grow into more of a grimace as he shakes his head, looking away from Zevran, focusing on the nearest wall. "...and I make mistakes. That ruin everything. ...and then the Commanders are unhappy, and... the other Templars, and... everyone. And it's my fault."

"Rules, yes? You need rules. Guidance. Something to keep you straight so you know you are doing the right thing and what to expect if you misstep, yes?" He has heard of such things, arrangements like this within the army. Strict adherence to a schedule and a routine, with rules they can follow and something to keep them in line.

Something to keep them from stumbling, lost and miserable, on their own.

He has also heard of and is far more familiar with such arrangements in the bedroom. But that may not be quite so useful, here. Maybe. Sex is an excellent incentive do do well after all. But he has the feeling that Cade has not, perhaps, had the same chance to make it into something good and pleasurable for himself in the interim. "If they do not know how to help you, it is not your fault."

Once Zevran says it aloud, Cade realizes it's the answer he's looking for. He nods suddenly, looking at the elf as though this is a completely mind-blowing revelation.
"Like... parts of the Chant of Light," he supplies, "they tell us how to be virtuous, and... how to help one another, but not... just... everyday things." His eyes go distant with concentration as pieces begin to click together.
"...I've never not been in the Order. I don't know how to..." He is still a Templar in name only, but without the drills and the weapons practice and, of course, the combat; without people telling him when to eat and sleep and bathe, he has no context for his life.
"...do anything else," he concludes, pursing his lips and hunching his shoulders self-consciously.

"Would having someone to hold you accountable for keeping the rules in mind help as well?" Of course it would- but simply saying that outright, delving out orders without a thorough discussion...this was not how he did such things.

There had to be understanding and ease on both ends.

"I know the feeling, somewhat. When I was no longer a part of the Crows it took me a long while to not think as someone that did not need to live as they did. Even now I still have some trouble with the idea. It is not the same as being a templar, I know, but..."

The question merits a hesitant nod from Cade, but also a nervous glance back at Zevran-- he's not a fool, and he has a feeling he knows where this is going, but he isn't sure this... notoriously promiscuous elf assassin is someone he can completely trust. Even if he is here, right now, being trustworthy.

"I'm still a Templar," he says, almost too defensively, and immediately looks away again. He can't help but wonder if they allowed him to keep his title just to keep him quiet, to prevent him going further off the deep end.
"...yes, I think that would help," he murmurs a moment later, with a tired, vaguely sulky face often reserved for when he's mentally berating himself. Stupid. Pathetic. Useless.

"One without the usual duties. But there are many things a Templar might do, yes?" It is not so strict as 'kill this target or die trying'. There are degrees. Zevran finds he can work with that. But here? A breakthrough of sorts, a small one.

Zev smooths his fingers through Cade's hair in a gentle reward. It is not much but- for someone that seems to have so little? It could be weighty enough. "What is it you like to do that would still fulfill your duties?"

The motion in his hair surprises Cade again-- it probably will every time for a while-- and he gives a small start, but it's less than a flinch.
He lapses into silence for a while, considering the question. "I still... work for Seeker Aleron," he muses, "...and I still pray. Often." He purses his lips, beginning to get that self-dragging look on his face again. "...but I'm not allowed near mages anymore. Or anything to do with combat, but... handling mages is what we do. It's the reason the Order exists." He doesn't say 'protecting' or 'working with' for a reason; to him, mages are still the nameless antagonists he knew in Kirkwall and the rebellion afterwards. Even before the tragedy with the Chantry, he knew better than to grow too attached.

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