Black Silk
Jul. 26th, 2010 02:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dalishstormNot a prompt response, but relevant to future ones.
Pirate Neirin, yarr! I can see it now.
-----------
Zevran found himself standing at Neirin's open door, grip so tight around the earring that the hard edges and the stud were driving painfully into his palm, but he had no words and no strength to move forward, to make himself known, lost himself in thought.
There'd been no time for anything, really, between Neirin's “recovery” and the Landsmeet. Of course, it wasn't so much a recovery as Neirin being functional again, able to finish all they needed before the Landsmeet in a flurry of action. He still tired quickly, had trouble breathing under stress physical or otherwise, and his eye.... Well, they had used the injury to their advantage, because the Warden had looked broken, that dark silk patch covering his eye, stark against his pale and still bruised skin, and it had made the nobles whisper behind their hands. Neirin, for his part, had borne their stares stoically. It was not a badge of honor, standing there in the Landsmeet chamber, but it was a mark of Loghain's cruelty and madness, and Neirin's triumph.
They were about to leave for Redcliffe, and Zevran had thought to give Neirin the earring now, as they'd discussed. Instead he stood in the door, lips thin and jaw tight, watching Neirin shrug into his robes with short, jerky movements that indicated pain, quick, harsh breaths, the blue fabric sliding over pale skin it complimented so well and deep bruises only half faded. You have been through worse, as has he, was no comfort at all. Comparing it to his own experience made it no easier for Neirin to bear, nor any easier for Zevran to watch.
It was when he came to the patch that Zevran burst into action, moving swiftly, fluidly to the mage's side, covering the hand that held the patch to untangle its straps in his own, closing a fist over Neirin's, the earring trapped there as well now. Neirin startled, looked up at him in surprise, then smiled. “Zevran.”
Zevran said nothing, running his free hand down Neirin's jaw to his chin to tip his head up slightly, then brushed unbound pale hair away from Neirin's face.
The area beneath Neirin's injured eye was still dark with the remainder of a mostly-healed bruise, but the swelling was gone now. They had not spoken of it, and had very little privacy, so Zevran had purposefully avoided looking at it. Now they were no more than a breath apart, Neirin's face tilted up to look at him questioningly, and Zevran could examine it and satisfy all his fears.
“Zevran?” Less certain, this time, but Zevran was afraid to say anything yet, too lost in what had once been a perfect, soulful blue eye, now cloudy and glazed. It seemed to track his motions, but Zevran assumed that was habit, associated with the fact that Neirin's other eye was fine.
“Can you see at all with it?” Zevran asked, voice quiet, almost as if afraid of his question and afraid of the answer—for speaking a thing made it more real.
“A little,” Neirin breathed, equally quiet. “Vague shapes and colors. You're distinctive, so I can tell who you are when you're this close, but I can't make you out at all. Just colors and shapes.”
Zevran ran his hand up the side of Neirin's face, so close to the eye that the smaller elf blinked reflexively, and Zevran darted in to lay a kiss on his closed eyelid, soft, and he let it linger when Neirin didn't protest. When he drew back Zevran whispered, “I would have you whole if I could, but I do not find you wanting, like this.”
Smiling playfully, Neirin finally drew his hand out of Zevran's, started untangling the straps of the patch. “Leliana says it makes me look distinguished.” Zevran took the patch from him and Neirin held it in place with one hand while Zevran all but embraced him to tie it on, careful of Neirin's loose hair. “I think it makes me look like a pirate. What do you say to us joining Isabella's crew when this is all said and done?”
“If that is your desire,” Zevran said, forcing a neutral expression and a considerate tone. “I have no need of plunder, though.”
“Says the man who salivates at the sight of unworked precious metals.”
Leaning back to observe his work, Zevran found the dark eye patch even more startling than the injured eye, as usual, because it stood out so very stark against Neirin's pale complexion. But he was smiling brightly, more life in him than Zevran could recall having seen in their entire journey. “I have all the treasure I could ever desire right here: spun gold,” he rain a hand through Neirin's hair, “sapphire,” his thumb under Neirin's good eye, “ivory...” trailed that same hand down Neirin's face and neck to rest on his shoulder.
“You're shameless,” but Neirin's voice was colored as the soft blush that spread over his cheeks. “Now, where's that earring?”
Pirate Neirin, yarr! I can see it now.
-----------
Zevran found himself standing at Neirin's open door, grip so tight around the earring that the hard edges and the stud were driving painfully into his palm, but he had no words and no strength to move forward, to make himself known, lost himself in thought.
There'd been no time for anything, really, between Neirin's “recovery” and the Landsmeet. Of course, it wasn't so much a recovery as Neirin being functional again, able to finish all they needed before the Landsmeet in a flurry of action. He still tired quickly, had trouble breathing under stress physical or otherwise, and his eye.... Well, they had used the injury to their advantage, because the Warden had looked broken, that dark silk patch covering his eye, stark against his pale and still bruised skin, and it had made the nobles whisper behind their hands. Neirin, for his part, had borne their stares stoically. It was not a badge of honor, standing there in the Landsmeet chamber, but it was a mark of Loghain's cruelty and madness, and Neirin's triumph.
They were about to leave for Redcliffe, and Zevran had thought to give Neirin the earring now, as they'd discussed. Instead he stood in the door, lips thin and jaw tight, watching Neirin shrug into his robes with short, jerky movements that indicated pain, quick, harsh breaths, the blue fabric sliding over pale skin it complimented so well and deep bruises only half faded. You have been through worse, as has he, was no comfort at all. Comparing it to his own experience made it no easier for Neirin to bear, nor any easier for Zevran to watch.
It was when he came to the patch that Zevran burst into action, moving swiftly, fluidly to the mage's side, covering the hand that held the patch to untangle its straps in his own, closing a fist over Neirin's, the earring trapped there as well now. Neirin startled, looked up at him in surprise, then smiled. “Zevran.”
Zevran said nothing, running his free hand down Neirin's jaw to his chin to tip his head up slightly, then brushed unbound pale hair away from Neirin's face.
The area beneath Neirin's injured eye was still dark with the remainder of a mostly-healed bruise, but the swelling was gone now. They had not spoken of it, and had very little privacy, so Zevran had purposefully avoided looking at it. Now they were no more than a breath apart, Neirin's face tilted up to look at him questioningly, and Zevran could examine it and satisfy all his fears.
“Zevran?” Less certain, this time, but Zevran was afraid to say anything yet, too lost in what had once been a perfect, soulful blue eye, now cloudy and glazed. It seemed to track his motions, but Zevran assumed that was habit, associated with the fact that Neirin's other eye was fine.
“Can you see at all with it?” Zevran asked, voice quiet, almost as if afraid of his question and afraid of the answer—for speaking a thing made it more real.
“A little,” Neirin breathed, equally quiet. “Vague shapes and colors. You're distinctive, so I can tell who you are when you're this close, but I can't make you out at all. Just colors and shapes.”
Zevran ran his hand up the side of Neirin's face, so close to the eye that the smaller elf blinked reflexively, and Zevran darted in to lay a kiss on his closed eyelid, soft, and he let it linger when Neirin didn't protest. When he drew back Zevran whispered, “I would have you whole if I could, but I do not find you wanting, like this.”
Smiling playfully, Neirin finally drew his hand out of Zevran's, started untangling the straps of the patch. “Leliana says it makes me look distinguished.” Zevran took the patch from him and Neirin held it in place with one hand while Zevran all but embraced him to tie it on, careful of Neirin's loose hair. “I think it makes me look like a pirate. What do you say to us joining Isabella's crew when this is all said and done?”
“If that is your desire,” Zevran said, forcing a neutral expression and a considerate tone. “I have no need of plunder, though.”
“Says the man who salivates at the sight of unworked precious metals.”
Leaning back to observe his work, Zevran found the dark eye patch even more startling than the injured eye, as usual, because it stood out so very stark against Neirin's pale complexion. But he was smiling brightly, more life in him than Zevran could recall having seen in their entire journey. “I have all the treasure I could ever desire right here: spun gold,” he rain a hand through Neirin's hair, “sapphire,” his thumb under Neirin's good eye, “ivory...” trailed that same hand down Neirin's face and neck to rest on his shoulder.
“You're shameless,” but Neirin's voice was colored as the soft blush that spread over his cheeks. “Now, where's that earring?”
