To others, it might have been strange, to step from cold air into thick and humid, the salt the barest taste as he breathed in. But to Solas, it was as natural as that very breath, taken as the lash came down, the crack echoing through the Fade. He stepped forward like a ghost might - unworried and unperturbed by who or what would see him. It didn't matter.
It was just another dream, another mirror of a reality that was hardly real in itself. A passing thought, for him to ponder and then release before he stepped into the next.
Or so he expected.
The truth was more complicated. The truth was when he stepped further into that dream, when he found the man bent, the knife at his throat - half a child, flickering, half the full grown man, remembering, and the recognition hit him. Zevran. This was no dream of desire, no antivan silk and endless whores. This was pain, and rage, and wounds so deep he couldn't see the bottom.
"What was that?" One of the shadows with the whip- a master, a Crow, an elven woman with red hair and blood at her throat, asked between one lash and the next. Those holding his arms shifted from face to face- Crows he knew, masters he served, nobles he'd killed.
The one constant was the man with the knife. Tanned skin, broad jaw, dark eyes and on his face a smile that was proud. Encouraging. "Almost done, Zev."
Murmured with affection. As though this was no torment, as though they were discussing the weather rather than lashing into his back. Zevran laughed, clearing his throat- never flinching. He could not afford to flinch. "I said he wanted to buy my hair. Can you imagine, Tali, me with a shaved head and a pocket full of sovereigns?"
Down snapped the whip and Zevran did not waver. "Of course I could not."
"You know why that is?" Taliesin's free hand slipped back to curl in the aforementioned hair, yanking Zevran's head up harshly, eyes glinting with something darker than pride, more vicious than the whip. Possession. "Let me hear you say why, Zev, and we'll be done. I promise."
"Because-" A lash too close to his spine, a stuttered breath Zevran twisted into a laugh, low and crackling. "Because I am yours. And you like it long, yes?"
"Enough." The word snapped out sharper than the whip had, a real, raw anger
behind the word. He had seen it, so many times. Had heard it...
He would not be witness to it again. Not here. Not now. Taliesin
disappeared into smoke as Solas stepped into the place where he had been,
the dream disintegrating around him. He took the knife, and dropped it
clattering to the floor.
"You are no one's, Zevran. You have paid dearly for your freedom. You
should not have it stripped from you again. Even here."
As welcome as the end of the dream was- Solas slipping in was just as jarring. That wasn't where the memory ended even if it was where the whipping stopped. Tender hands on his back, a mouth on his shoulder, Taliesin branding his skin and teeth and breath into Zevran's skin as he ever did when he thought for even a moment Zevran's attention might stray.
He remained on his knees for a moment, the pain fading, the marks, fading as the child curled up into nothing in the center of his chest and the man remained.
Solas walked in dreams, this he knew. He simply never thought Solas would go so far as to intrude in his own. "What, that?"
A laugh, hollow as the rest as he found his feet. "Mm. I knelt willingly for that. I do not know if you are aware but there are some things done in the bedroom that aren't all courtly gestures, my bald friend."
"And you think others have not knelt and willingly given up their freedom?"
He was bald, yes. Now. Only from practice. He could not afford to slip into
a younger version of himself, here. Could not afford the Dread Wolf bearing
its fangs, regardless of how the words stirred an old, bitter passion in
him.
He knew the difference, between the sweet scent of bedroom pleasure, and
the scar tissue of the Fade. He knew the latter far too well.
He offered a hand as Zevran stood.
"Or that courtly gestures can be as heavy a chain as any other?"
"It is a rare thing when they do not." It was a different matter entirely if it was the game he would rather play it of as, rather than one of many incidents of Taliesin attempting to assert his right to do with Zevran what he willed in exchange for his life.
What manner of life that had been.
His lips pressed thin as he took the hand- and made a gesture all his own, tugging Solas' up to press a kiss to the back of it. "Well if you are promising chains..."
Playing the part was simpler when he was awake. When he could prevent bruising from blooming onto his skin where he'd been manacled in the past at the thought.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It was just another dream, another mirror of a reality that was hardly real in itself. A passing thought, for him to ponder and then release before he stepped into the next.
Or so he expected.
The truth was more complicated. The truth was when he stepped further into that dream, when he found the man bent, the knife at his throat - half a child, flickering, half the full grown man, remembering, and the recognition hit him. Zevran. This was no dream of desire, no antivan silk and endless whores. This was pain, and rage, and wounds so deep he couldn't see the bottom.
This was wrong.
no subject
The one constant was the man with the knife. Tanned skin, broad jaw, dark eyes and on his face a smile that was proud. Encouraging. "Almost done, Zev."
Murmured with affection. As though this was no torment, as though they were discussing the weather rather than lashing into his back. Zevran laughed, clearing his throat- never flinching. He could not afford to flinch. "I said he wanted to buy my hair. Can you imagine, Tali, me with a shaved head and a pocket full of sovereigns?"
Down snapped the whip and Zevran did not waver. "Of course I could not."
"You know why that is?" Taliesin's free hand slipped back to curl in the aforementioned hair, yanking Zevran's head up harshly, eyes glinting with something darker than pride, more vicious than the whip. Possession. "Let me hear you say why, Zev, and we'll be done. I promise."
"Because-" A lash too close to his spine, a stuttered breath Zevran twisted into a laugh, low and crackling. "Because I am yours. And you like it long, yes?"
no subject
"Enough." The word snapped out sharper than the whip had, a real, raw anger behind the word. He had seen it, so many times. Had heard it...
He would not be witness to it again. Not here. Not now. Taliesin disappeared into smoke as Solas stepped into the place where he had been, the dream disintegrating around him. He took the knife, and dropped it clattering to the floor.
"You are no one's, Zevran. You have paid dearly for your freedom. You should not have it stripped from you again. Even here."
no subject
He remained on his knees for a moment, the pain fading, the marks, fading as the child curled up into nothing in the center of his chest and the man remained.
Solas walked in dreams, this he knew. He simply never thought Solas would go so far as to intrude in his own. "What, that?"
A laugh, hollow as the rest as he found his feet. "Mm. I knelt willingly for that. I do not know if you are aware but there are some things done in the bedroom that aren't all courtly gestures, my bald friend."
no subject
"And you think others have not knelt and willingly given up their freedom?"
He was bald, yes. Now. Only from practice. He could not afford to slip into a younger version of himself, here. Could not afford the Dread Wolf bearing its fangs, regardless of how the words stirred an old, bitter passion in him.
He knew the difference, between the sweet scent of bedroom pleasure, and the scar tissue of the Fade. He knew the latter far too well.
He offered a hand as Zevran stood.
"Or that courtly gestures can be as heavy a chain as any other?"
no subject
What manner of life that had been.
His lips pressed thin as he took the hand- and made a gesture all his own, tugging Solas' up to press a kiss to the back of it. "Well if you are promising chains..."
Playing the part was simpler when he was awake. When he could prevent bruising from blooming onto his skin where he'd been manacled in the past at the thought.