someone else's hunger made a sacrifice of me.

just a man.

"well, i am back, so now you have no reason to be lonely!"

he feels better here, zevran realizes. he feels better here in the company of his friend. less afraid. iloren exudes an energy that soothes the assassin, despite his grumbles.

his movement is gentle as he guides iloren's hand away from the wound, as he helps his friend lean forward just enough to make wrapping the bandage around him easier. he is pleased to see the bleeding has lessened.

"hale and whole," he says, by way of answering iloren's question about his own health. it is pointedly not an acknowledgement of being alright. "i did not run into a single one of our metal friends. they must be busy putting holes in other people."

he ties the bandage off and sets back on his heels.

"there. now you will have yet another fetching scar to add to your collection."

and should zevran ever get the chance to see it again, he will remember this. remember the feel of iloren draping his body over him. the feeling of iloren kissing him to quiet the raging panic in his heart, lungs, and brain. the assassin grows quietly.

zevran's hands on him are a sure reminder of his friend's presence. there is no longer a lack of sound. not even a lack of warm touch. he's wrapped neatly, a near perfect job, and knows that he won't have to worry about this any more than he has— which is barely at all.

he'd worried more about zevran. it's strange to see angry panic so embedded in the other elf, who's usually so composed and quick-witted. better to see him return to something more familiar, his touches and words lighter.

it's almost unbelievable to iloren. was it the kissing, he wonders, or was it something he'd said? maybe both. he's not used to convincing people the way he did with zevran. nor was he expecting gratitude after such an outburst, willing to let it go.

but the inquisitor gets what he wants more often than not. so zevran thanks him, if quietly.

after the surprise shows on his face plainly, iloren's expression moves into the softest smile. there's some self-satisfaction in it. ' you're welcome. '

his hand reaches out again, the blood on it dried now, to touch at zevran's cheek, brushing his hair behind his ear. it's a gentle touch, mostly to marvel at the other elf. his gaze carries more tenderness than is appropriate. if they'd the time, who knows what he would get up to.

it really does seem like complacency is the only option in this place. for somebody who's spent so much time struggling to change things, it's a strange concept to wrap his mind around.

"I've fished in rivers before! I've never done so elsewhere, however. It would be lovely to find some of the local ones..."

He's hunted recreationally, of course, and eaten the gains: couldn't afford to just hunt for sport, with the mediocre nobility of his family -- and of course, he knew of fishing as a similar thing.

The description of Thedas -- with rocks and hard weather -- reminds him of certain places in his own home, though perhaps less snowy than that certain country (the one his father had come from, in fact). Something somewhat familiar, in a way, yet alien -- he can almost imagine it, gray stone and green moss, soft brown earth and a sepia haze in the air when it's rainy...at least, that's what he'd like to believe.

"My father hailed from somewhere similar, but much colder. I think I'm like my mother...I do best in the warmth, so I quite like this beach."

iloren leans to grab a small shell from the ground as reuben speaks. it curls funnily, its inhabitant nowhere to be seen. when he holds it up to the sun he can see its small lines and ripples, a spot where the sand and wind had chipped its edges.

' you're a hot house orchid, ' he says fondly. ' like my friend dorian. the spots we've travelled, you'd hate some of them the same way he did. like the swamps. ' grinning as he says it, turning his gaze towards reuben.

' the wet and cold there … i wouldn't want you to wilt. '

iloren himself manages in most environments. a necessity when you spend your life travelling with no land to call your own. he's never spent much thought on whether he prefers the warm or the cold, but when he thinks about it now, he thinks of the lush greenery of the hinterlands, and how much he'd enjoyed his travels there.

The fallen angel sighs. "Humans easily do the same no matter the realm, it seems."

Her fingers rest lightly on the keys again. Ismene picks another song to play, though it is softer so they both may speak.

does he?

it gives iloren more pause than he would have liked, some time ago. he slowly sits up again as he thinks about it, suddenly needing to pay more attention to the thoughts in his head and the feelings in his chest.

his gaze sweeps over the rest of the church. ' i met mythal. one of my gods. it would be hard to lose my belief after such a feat. ' and if the stars hadn't taken his abilities, he would hear the ancient elvhen voices in his head still, whispering knowledge to him.

it's shame that festers in his next words. ' but i doubted. i wasn't sure— who could survive so many things without divine intervention? '

Octavo, meanwhile, can't hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears and the rattle of his own breath. He wants to shout at Iloren that the need to get out, that the parents of these pups couldn't be far, but he can't even lift his head, choked by the canine stink of the den.

iloren all but stands on top of octavo to try and keep him from harm's way. he jerks his hand through the air and the green rift above them listens. it wraps the pups in front of them in green lightning just in time for their mother to show up.

the inquisitor curses under his breath. they're surrounded.

the pups yelp with the attack and the larger wolf immediately growls and jumps. iloren adjusts his stance, feet shifting around octavo's quivering body to shield him. she doesn't manage to tear her teeth into him thanks to his armour. iloren waits— feels the rift in the connection to his anchor, feels the impact of her attacks ramming into him, bears the brunt of both until there's an opening.

he strikes at her. it'd be more effective if he had his greataxe in comparison to this smaller one, but he hits her across the chest. she makes a whining noise and falls back for a moment that iloren uses to heave octavo up by the back of his collar.

"Makes sense," Reinite answers after another slow sip of her drink. "Not everyone here comes from the same place."

The beauty of the multiverse - at least, that's how Lorene explained ti to her in the brief chances they had to speak.

it'd be an easy thing to take offense to. she doesn't seem like the type of person who wants to be forgiven for her judgement at all. but her words give him reason to pause and argue for his cause, so the only sign of annoyance is the way his index taps against his glass a few times.

' the people seek help, ' he starts with. ' our land was in turmoil. they're desperate for support and they find it in their faith. something simple and pure. they placed that faith in me. '

he makes the distinction this time, between himself and the inquisition. it was founded by cassandra the moment she accepted iloren was exactly what they needed when they needed it— words that ring in his head often. he takes a sip of his drink.

' i've done my best to live up to it. it's not something i use to persuade the masses. ' he laughs lightly to himself. ' the faith i've been called to isn't my own. i'm dalish. my gods are others. '

"I try not to encourage excessive desires," the blond nods back, but his smile widens slightly in response. "Angels may be created by God's grace, but they are hardly infallible."

"A bit of moderation is expected for our kind."

It's a rare admission of weakness—but one that doesn't bother Aurelius. His easygoing tone belies his confidence on managing the matter.

"There are some sights that can only be seen in flight, especially in these islands," he continues. "I can show you before you leave. Perhaps indulging others is a way of indulging myself?" He pauses to wonder, then laughs again.

' moderation is a great tool, ' iloren muses thoughtfully. there's a lavishness to this new life of his.

' i've received many gifts since achieving my station, but i think back to my roots often. ' this visit is something he wouldn't have obtained had he not found himself with the title of heraldly. he's vividly aware of it, but the bitter taste of it has distanced itself over the years.

it's hard to be upset about it when he's being treated with such sincerity and generosity. aurelius is an outstanding host.

' before i leave? '

the offer has the inquisitor puzzled for a moment. he hadn't expected to fly today— fall, perhaps, given the isles and the distance between them. he starts thinking about logistics almost immediately. wouldn't aurelius have to hold him?

' today? now? ' he betrays his eagerness in trying to get specifics. the idea is exciting. to watch a dragon soar through the sky, it's something so far removed from iloren he'd never considered it for himself. he laughs at himself.

Then Iloren hits her with that dual-sided blade of a question. "No, I'm more upset you jumped to calling me a god. I just told you plenty of people back home ignore anything else in my blood the second they know I'm a Godling."

Still, she's not hostile, just voicing upset. Reinite recognizes that somber expression. She takes a sip of her drink.

it certainly does bite ass.

it's refreshing to hear her speak so plainly. as inquisitor, iloren is plenty used to people talking in circles when they address him, never outright stating what they want from him. this type of frankness is rare.

he nods slowly, a soft bow of his head. ' i apologize. the gods in my world are absent and silent— people are desperate for any mention of them. a godling is an … absurd concept. as a benevolent inquisition is to you, i gather. '

he wonders how things would have changed, were such people common among thedas. most likely not at all. elves like them don't easily gain a position of power there.

he knows it isn't true, of course. but he can pretend, for just a little while.

truly, it is a miracle the inquisitor is not drifting off with the way his eyes droop, with how his words have gotten quieter. zevran feels no need to tell him to keep his eyes open; the man is a warrior, this is not the first wound of this persuasion he has suffered. he knows.

the assassin manages to bark a short laugh, taking iloren's own arm to squeeze it in what he hopes is something of a comforting gesture.

"that is all i ask!" and he actually looks like himself for the first time since this disaster has began, bright and mischievous. "but what little faith you must have in me to think i would be hit at all."

he stands, casts one look back at iloren's face, and sets about his search.

it is hard to tell for how long he is gone. every minute may as well be an hour in this place. he tries to be quick and thorough, both. for his efforts, he is rewarded. no robots find him.

he returns with a small metal box. he is not sure why these metal men would have a first aid kit laying about, but he assumes it is for whoever might control them. fleshier beings, perhaps. in any case, he had seen bandages when he had peeked inside and so had brought the whole thing.

he sets it by iloren's feet with a soft clunk.

"still with us, my friend?" he won't say out loud that he had been worried the entire time he'd been away, but he had been. fretting over the possibility of coming back to find a corpse... or worse, somehow.

"there is nothing here for me to sew the wound closed, but there is enough gauze to wrap it."

the inquisitor looks tired when zevran reappears in the room. as promised, he hadn't moved from his spot. even his hand remains in the same position, pressing tightly into his injury.

he still manages a soft smile towards his friend.

' still here. a little lonely. '

it's said like a jest, but very much isn't. the silence of the room irked him once zevran left. the halls are too bright and open. whenever he was injured he remembers people flocking to him as sheep do to a shepherd. the inquisitor is down, or, help the inquisitor!

thank the maker, cassandra had said when his steps had carried him through snowy mountains back towards his friends. he had wondered, for a moment, if she was concerned for him or the anchor.

it was a conceited question. of course she was concerned for him.

he didn't like the silence. the eery reminder of his being alone. that zevran may get lost or injured himself and iloren wouldn't be there. they could have gotten separated entirely.

it's good that zevran returned when he did. he might have gotten up from his spot had he not. he eyes the little case, slowly surrenders his hold on himself. zevran's shirt is drenched in blood, but the flow itself seems to have slowed.

"Recruits are promised honor not survival, Inquisitor!" Andrale finds herself saying before she can stop.

Fine. Fine he thinks they were doing it for a darkspawn?

Let him think it.

He dares her to strike him. Dares her to make this done.

She rather she could strike him dead instead, but that would still give him satisfaction.

"You act like you know the Wardens, but you don't. I have no use explaining it to someone as dense and proud as you. Enjoy your fire."

the inquisitor watches her leave. it's not until her steps lead her out of his sight that he takes hold of his wrist, digging his thumb into his left palm. his eyes still roam the line of trees she disappeared into.

josephine would have things to say about this. the inquisitor could have handled himself better. an emotionally charged exchange such as this, caused by his own decisions. were he still in thedas, this would have consequences that could have been avoided.

perhaps it still will. who knows whether the arlessa will remember this, were they both to return home. maybe the rage of it would have subsided after ten years to grapple with the weight of it.

he's managed fairly well in two years, after all.

She finds herself gazing up, as if the Lord Himself would answer for her. Instead, it is silence. She sighs softly.

"It is a heavy burden, not easily shared or shouldered," the fallen angel says solemnly. "I deal with it by trying to stay to who I am. Not who I believe the others want me to be. It is tricky, and not easy." Ismene turns again to look at Iloren.

ismene looks towards the sky as if it would hold an answer. he watches her as she does and wonders how many times he's looked towards the breach in the sky, and later its scar, forever embedded into it. much like the scar in his left palm.

who he is, that's a question too large to ask her and expect an answer.

iloren nods solemnly. ' the dalish don't follow the maker or his prophets. the people didn't care whether or not i believed— the belief of the masses outweighed my own. '

it was a lonely position. in the beginning, he had made his opinion clear. he didn't believe in andraste. he didn't feel a higher power at the conclave. he didn't remember most of the conclave. with time, things changed, but his lonely position remained the same.