ombranera | Open RP Post

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.

"Is there no room for research? Nothing academic that holds your interest? Service to the Templars and to the Chantry can be managed with more than handling the Mages." What, exactly, that might be? He can't say. Perhaps it is simpler to break this down a little more. "What do you enjoy doing? What gives you purpose? Fills the void."

Oh no. It's this question again. Nerva asked him once, and had to ultimately drop it because he just had no answer.
"...patrolling," he says lamely, the same thing Nerva said wasn't a hobby. "...and I... like to read, sometimes." Full stop. That's it.
"Any purpose I need, the Chantry gives me," he adds, hoping that's an acceptable answer. Sometimes he actually envies the Tranquil. ...more than sometimes.

"Keeping a solid perimeter is important." He nods to himself, continuing to comb his fingers through Cade's hair, attempting to gradually work the tension out of him. "Any manner of books in particular? We can work with these things. Give you structure."

It's a bit more detailed than he'd expect but- he can work with this.

Without noticing, Cade is becoming more and more accepting of Zevran's hand in his hair. He chews his lip, thinking.
"I suppose the... well I like all of them," he assures him, as though he'll be judged for his choice, "but I.. the ones I like the most are just..." He tenses for a moment, as though this is another awful secret that he's about to spill. "...the frivolous ones. ...you know. Made-up stories."

"Things to take your mind off where you are and help you imagine a different life- without any of the real weight or anxiety that attempting to have one would bring." Zevran knows this well. Enough that his hand drops from Cade's hair to the nape of his neck, gently massaging at the tension there. His voice remains warm and easy- nonjudgmental. Soothing, even. "What were you reading just now, before I came in?"

Cade almost jolts away with a gasp when Zevran's hand migrates, but he makes himself stay, albeit leaning forward a little.
"It's, um... the Adventures of the Black Fox," he murmurs, and reaches down to unearth it from under the blanket. After a moment's consideration, he adds, "...you'd probably like it." Zevran seems the type, as far as he can tell.

He keeps the touch light for the moment, gauging comfort, letting Cade choose how much or how little he feels. IF the discomfort lingers? His hand slips back up into his hair- safer territory. "Tell me about it."

It takes Cade a moment to answer, his attention pinpointed on the hand on his neck-- he's still very tense, but weathering it, at least for now.

"Well it's... he was this Orlesian thief sort who wanted to tear down the tyrannical ruler," he explains, beginning to blush a bit for no obvious reason, "he did... all sorts of things. Against the law. Though nobody's really sure which ones are true and which ones aren't. I suppose I don't really care."
He flips through it idly, then offers Zevran a bashful, apologetic smile. "...I don't... really think there's anything romantic or exciting about being a criminal." You know, just in case anyone is listening in to judge him for enjoying fiction.
"...you traveled with the Hero of Ferelden, didn't you? And Alistair." Translation: you might be a Sketchy Sort, but if the Hero of Ferelden trusted you, clearly you can't be too terrible.

"It depends on the author, I think. I have read similar tales where such criminals are painted in the worst possible light- more often than not they are penned by the nobility. Others exalt them as heroes for the impoverished- and those are written by the destitute." Zevran shrugs. "Perspective is a wonderful and occasionally terrible thing."

In so many, many ways.

"The Warden? Yes, I did. He spared my life and took me in when I had nowhere to turn. Alistair likewise was terribly kind once I convinced him I didn't mean to kill them in their sleep."

Cade listens thoughtfully as Zevran points out the differences between authorship, and he even seems to be made a bit uncomfortable by it-- although he's not necessarily wealthy anymore, he has never been poor, and has lived a comparatively privileged existence.
"...I suppose so," he concedes.

On the subject of Alistair, he smiles, but sadly. "He is," he agrees in a quiet voice, "...or... was. I'm not sure." His chest pangs unhappily as he thinks about it. "...it may just be me."

"He is." Said with all the certainty of one that knows, and knows well, how kind Alistair can be. On occasion it could be infuriating but- the kindness is there none the less. "You knew him before?"

Alistair has not mentioned Cade- not for a lack of caring but rather for a lack of interest on Zevran's part.

All things considered, it's probably better that way. He wouldn't have many good things to say these days.

Cade nods. "As children," he says softly, "we were in the same abbey. Classmates." The corner of his mouth quirks up in what's almost a smile, but it dwindles again.

"The abbey where he would go somewhere quiet and scream until the sisters came to find him?" A beat. "Did he actually do that or was he having us on? Because I truly can imagine him doing such a thing but sometimes I cannot tell when he is being a shit and when he is being honest."

The small smile returns, but this time it stays. "...he did," Cade confirms, in a low and almost conspiratorial voice, "he was constantly in trouble. And... occasionally I was too, by association." His shoulders twitch in what almost becomes a laugh, but remains instead a fond, melancholy smile. "He didn't fit in well, the others didn't like him much. But he and I spent quite a bit of time together." A hesitant glance is cast up at Zevran-- this is actually the first time he's ever spoken about this.
"...I wasn't very outgoing, or... interesting at all, so I think he hung around me to get away from the others."

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