sixthiterationtexts | [One-Man Show] un: Watney

Have a plan, Alistair. If I am here I cannot be at your side, minding your flank.

[ It's-

Wrong, his voice. It's dull and flat and clipped and he knows it, the life, the music carved free. And yet he has no desire to play at being fine. ]

[Voice. He can do voice. Foggy showed him that.]

I'm going with a man I found at that party. Crazy, climbing a wall one-armed, but he decided he's going. He's getting supplies together. ...Taking too damn much time to do it, but still.

I'm bringing my woodcutting axe.

[And then, much more quietly, he said--] Maker's ass, Zev, this scared the life out of me. I thought I'd lost you. Damn it, I...

...just...

...stay safe until I get to you, all right?

It's not right, here, without you.

One armed- Malik.

[ A dead man that does not yet know he is dead or how it is he comes to die.

Someone Zevran does not much know and has no desire to enlighten. ]

I'm armed. I have my knives, my boots, and my coat. I will survive.

[ Despite himself, it seems- though that thought is washed over with a twinge of...guilt? At Alistair's soft admission. ]

...You managed to live a decade without my company, I am certain you could manage.

Maybe I could but that doesn't mean I want to.

Look... [A heaved sigh, and then his voice edged back toward normal.] I barely recognise some of the names you mentioned. You, I know. You, I trust. You get them halfway, I know you can, and by then I should be there to meet you.

[And then there's the smallest hint of humour, a gentle, verbal nudge in Zev's direction.] And I promise I won't bring you anything I cooked.

You really need to get out more. [ There's a vague thread of exasperation wrapped in the shadow of something fond in Zevran's voice. A touch. A hair. ]

...if you bring food you've cooked I am turning around and marching back up to the top of the mountain.

I do get out sometimes. I had to get Foggy to teach me how to use this thing. It's too damn tiny for my fingers. Every time I try to hit one letter, I hit about three.

[After a few moments, he goes on:] Is it weird that this feels normal? Back out into the woods without much in the way of supplies? I halfway feel like I'll find an elven ruin on the way and have to kill a revenant or something...

That was my first thought. If it weren't for the foxes I would think I was on the path to the temple of Andraste again.

[ Alas, there are no small sordid towns with their cults to poke. Sad day. ]

I half expect to hear Shale complaining about birds or Oghren complain about the lack of beer.

Or the damn dog farting in its sleep. [He laughed, but it was quiet.]

Maker's breath, I missed you. Are you all right, Zev? You sound like somebody shook you around until your head hit a rock.

...Did your Warden take you into the Temple itself? Through its tasks and trials?

Yes. She thought it would be... important for me. To see proof or disproof of my so-called faith. Took Leliana, too. I think the only right thing she might've done was to kill the cultists.

Do you recall the ghost at the front? The one with many judgments and not many answers.

It was...something like that.

...Fuck.

...

[There are a good few long moments of silence before--]

I won't say a single word. Won't ask a single question, I swear.

[ In the temple- he'd been belligerent. Curt. Shoved through with a snarled answer, with such vicious frustration Jonas took him aside after to ask about it.

Well intended as it had been? Zevran had nothing to say then. He certainly does not now. ]

You have my thanks.

Want to help me hack at a tree a few days after we get back? It helps sometimes. Works out frustration.

I think I shall kill a few of the foxes attempting to hunt us. Ther fur will be useful not everyone is dressed for the weather.

Good idea. The crazy wall-climber is bringing coats and such. We need carts. The first lumber I make has to go to carts.

[Even if he wasn't sure who was going to pull them except... them. The people.]

Anything you, specifically, want me to bring?

The packs you had when you woke in the fountain. They are designed for carrying loads over long distances.

You haven't found a bottle of brandy poking about the village, have you?

Can't say I have. ...Plus, you know, been trying to stay away from it. How about I promise you a backrub? Won't be as good as one of yours, but I'm not completely hopeless.

[There's some background noise for some of this. Fussing about to try to find the pack. And put together some kind of belt to hold the axe.]

I don't want the brandy to relax, Alistair, I want it so I will not think.

[ Won't remember the spill of blood, the betrayal on Rinna's face-

The oily curl of Tali's voice in his ear so soon after. ]

...If you check under the bed we haven't been using, you'll find a leather scabbard and belt. The tooling isn't finished but that is purely decorative. Consider it a late Satanalia gift.

[He's quiet, but then--]

Zev...

[If anything, he sounds absolutely, genuinely touched, but it shifts to gentle admonishment.]

Zev... It was for your knives, wasn't it? It must be. I've not been here long enough for you to work on something for me. ...Plus I smacked you in the face with a rock. I didn't mean to, but ... you know what I mean.

Would I go through the effort of putting the warden crest and griffons into the strap if it was meant for me?

[ And it is, in fact, just that. Half-formed, the fine lines not yet finished, the beginnings of a stamped pattern down half the length of the belt. Nothing of Antiva- nothing of Ferelden, not truly, but something of Alistair's.

Something that, to him, mattered. ]

From the sounds of it I have missed quite a few gifts. You are owed this.

[He's found it by then and... and he's quiet. Amazed.]

This is magnificent, Zevran. I'm... Thank you. Thank you so much - you've put... so much work into this...

Your trousers kept slipping low on your hips.

[ Like that takes the sentiment from the gift- it doesn't. He knows it does not. ]

As I said. I was not...there, for you, when you needed someone. I should have been. No oath of loyalty, no promise of safety is worth abandoning the first friend I have made honestly.

[A few more quiet moments as he tries to figure out the right reaction and, after a bit, lands on some light joking.]

We both know that if my pants were falling down, you would've sewn sinkers into the hems to make it happen faster.

The number of weights I would have to stitch in would tear the fabric before it pulled them past your ass.

[ It's an attempt at humor, for whatever little it may be worth. ]

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