sunburn and fever dreams

Takes place in Ferelden on the Amaranthine Coast.
People fleeing Arlathan + his own clanmates coming through.

Things were, in fact, terrible. No matter which way he looked at it. His clan was homeless until the camp center was rebuilt. And it bothered him greatly that this was happening. He didn't think too much about what happened, though he did have nightmares frequently about it. Always Carasson, but not. Just the body controlled by someone else. And he never makes it to the end of the dream. It's too real, too soon. And it breaks his heart everytime he relives it.

Breaks his heart because he's not been able to face Cara. Or any of them, really. What kind of Keeper went toe-to-toe with an opponent and lost? The clan has stayed in Arlathan, and sometimes they come around. But he makes sure he's always busy. Rebuilding their camp, their home. He does it all by hand purely because it reminds him of good times; teaching children to fish, swim, whittle. He does it by hand to stall. 

Because he's not certain that he wants to stay. Part of him wants his last duty as Keeper to be giving back their home. 

Before he leaves, if he can bring himself to leave. 

Though the anxiety of leaving the clan with Cara is overwhelming. Even though he knows that spirit is gone. 

Not just a spirit.

Evanuris. 

He'd gone toe-to-toe with an Evanuris and survived. And yet, he didn't see the pride in that. Because everything was fucked up.

And now?

The sun was fucked up too.

It was hot, sweltering, but nothing he was unused to. After all, being on the ocean meant the sun reflected back at you. The first danger was sunburn, the second, sun poisoning. He'd only ever had sun poisoning once. He was steadily working under a handmade shade when the Eluvian sparked to life. Clanmates and non-clanmates came pouring through the giant portal, and he frowned. He was used to one or two people coming through, checking on him. Bringing him meals, materials. 

But this group sounded panicked. 

Had he failed the clan again, by leaving them in Arlathan?

He tried to sort the non-Dales from the Dalish, tried to pinpoint each person from his clan. But the panic was simply too much for him to work with. Once the eluvian stopped swirling colors, he moved to find the highest point in the clan center, which was just a large rock that jutted up. It'd been their meat-drying area before, but now it was nothing but a boulder. Calm down, he clapped his hands and spoke louder, attempting to force attention onto himself. 

What's happened? Why are you here? Half-built huts, makeshift tents, vines still everywhere. 

Arlathan's in trouble. The woman that called out was one of his clan, adopted into the life despite some of the staunch resistance he'd faced a few years prior. His face fell, and he searched the crowd of people for one of his people. Not a clanmate, he was searching for Inala. Carasson (as much as the thought made his anxiety spike). He was searching for his daughter. 

He didn't see them.

Falon'Din was gone. Not gone, relocated. 

Chip was alive. 

Inala was back. 

It should've been a happy moment it was all tainted with the stain of his actions. His actions. Destruction at his hand when he'd been too weak willed to stop Falon'Din from consuming him. Death at his hand. He had a front row seat, the veil in his mind lifting in those last moments where it was usually pitch black. His crowning act was to show Carasson visions that would haunt him for the rest of his life. In the moments when Xochipilli succumbed to his might, there was Carasson, beating madly at the barrier, his face twisted in anguish, his screams muted. When the wraiths appeared, their death masks unmovable as they awaited orders, there was Carasson. 

He remembered it all. 

And instead of sticking around to face the music and rebuild what they'd lost, he fled. He ran, and ran and ran until there was nowhere left to run. He would then shift into his hawk form and sail into the clouds, beating his wings against an unforgiving current until he was atop the loneliest peak of the tallest mountain. It was there that he would stay, only doing so much to keep himself alive but wondering if that was even worth the trouble after a while. Especially when a frozen wind would lash against his exposed skin day and night and unforgiving punishment he knew he deserved.  He couldn't face them because he couldn't bear to see their expressions. It was a pain that guttered him, siphoning what remained of his fortitude, his self preservation. 

He missed them. 

He lost track of time and by the time he connected with one of the Frozen Peak clans, and found Thedas was rife with chaos as it always was. He might've ignored mention of the rising heat, had news of Arlathan's inferno not reached him before he'd fully made up his mind to return to his misery. Arlathan was where the clan had retreated when everything had descended into chaos. Where would they go, now? 

It was the impetus he needed to return, the guise he would use to hide a desperate yearning to see the two most important people in his life. Maybe if they could help Arlathan together....they could....what? Fix everything broken? It was very fantastical. 

No. 

Nothing would be the same and yet there was nothing to fix the twin holes in his heart but the very painful truth. So he would try. 

He arrived in Arlathan first, assessing the damage that continued to worsen as the heat continued to rise. He didn't make himself known to the rest and instead bent his head and followed the crowd as they decided to travel via eluvian to their ruined clan center. He wasn't sure what he was expecting when he stepped through, but it was so much worse. His body turned numb as he took in the destruction, his mouth going dry when the very person he dreading seeing stepped above them, unavoidable. Cara's eyes cast up. 

Xochipilli. 

I'm so sorry He would whisper as he lowered the hood and stood stock still at the edge of the panicked crowd.

Xochipilli frowned as people stared up at him. Calmer, for the moment. He turned his attention to a small child, Orlaith. Familiar. Varahel. And as she rushed towards him, complaining about being thirsty, he nodded, and moved to pull her into one arm. Stay clear of the ocean, the salt will just dehydrate you further. He called out, gaze wandering along the crowd.

Dark eyes paused, when he caught sight of Carasson. Fear bubbled in his chest, anxiety spiking. And he shook his head slowly, stepping off of the boulder and onto the dry, cracked earthen floor of the clan.

His next few movements were steady, even though there was a tremble to his hands. Orlaith was handed back into the crowd, as he moved into the very center of the clearing, humming under his breath. He paused, eventually.

Leaning down, he summoned a vine to mark the spot. And then he weaved his way through the crowd, past frightened people, to the man he'd hoped on some level to never see again.

He still had nightmares, about Carasson. About... everything that he'd done. Boiling his blood. When he'd tried to dry-drown Cara from the inside-out. When... at the end, Carasson had rendered him useless and his clan in danger... No, not Cara. But the body... the power... It didn't change the association in his mind.

And he trembled slightly, as he got nearer.

Chip stopped a foot away. I... His voice was hoarse, and not because he was thirsty. He paused, one minute, two minutes, three. I need your help. They need a water source. But he did not have geomancy. The last well had been destroyed in the scuffle, and he had not yet taken the time to rebuild it by hand.

I don't think they want to help me dig a well. A weak attempt at a joke, if he was being honest. His voice cracked, and he averted his gaze. He couldn't let himself get swept up in his feelings; his people (and those who were not his people) needed him.

He shifted his weight, anxiously, and swallowed hard. Reminding himself that the man wasn't touching him, he'd stopped far enough away with distance between them.

The reaction was no less than what he expected. He could see the silent horror reflected in the other man's gaze. He could sense the distance between them, it's weight nothing to do with their physical proximity and everything to do with the walls of adamant going up between them. Cara would never fault Chip for it, just as he would never fault Chip for defending himself when it was necessary.  

He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat as his keeper neared, stopping a considerable distance away. No risk for even an accidental grazing. He widened his stance on the hard packed sand as he attempted to steady his posture. It wouldn't take any more than a light nudge for him to pass out from the lack of oxygen going to his brain. He was holding his breath tightly, lips having clamped firmly after he whispered the lament. Chip was asking him for help. Help from the man who, albeit by proxy for a wrathful god, had leveled the very village they now stood amidst. 

Carasson could see how hard it was for the other man to ask. Nevermind, the humility it took to ask for help in the first place, but to ask it from someone you could barely look in the eye. His face paled further as Chip shifted, the fear and anxiety consuming his features, fear spurred on by the presence of his tormentor, the man who placed him on death's doormat without so much of a thought. Realizing that one of them would need to act progressively, Cara nodded firmly, silver rimming his amber hued irises as emotion flooded him. He wanted to laugh at the poorly timed joke but now simply wasn't the time. How long would it be before they could enjoy things so simple as corny humor again? 

Or was that even possible? Only if you can be patient with me. I don't know the limits of that power yet. Or it's finer properties, as it was a practice he'd only briefly acquired as a means to and end. He'd never spent much time nurturing that skill. But he cleared his throat and turned, hating that he would put his back to Xochipilli again. That it was necessary was the only comfort he would glean, because none of this was comforting to him. 

Standing over a flat swath of earth, he closed his eyes and focused beginning to maneuver his hand for the spell he knew to displace dirt and rock alike. His other hand lay over the center of his chest where a pendant now hung against his skin beneath his tunic. Since his emancipation, the lone pendant in the rough hewn shape of a sunburst flame now served as a conduit of sorts for the power he'd become dissociated with in his possession. Having Falon'Din's talons sunk in for so long, controlling that power for so long, had turned his power unresponsive. Almost as if it had forgotten who he was when they were free to connect again. Slowly it came back but not without some help. A divot started to appear in the ground before him and Carasson focused on it intently afraid of what he might see if he looked up.

"Only if you can be patient with me. I don't know the limits of that power yet."

The Keeper stared at the ground, stood still as the other left him to begin building the well. His magic is strong, familiar, and for a moment Chip forgets how to breathe. His fingers curl into his palms, as he tried to stop the trembling.

He had no idea that Carasson, and Inala, had left. He had no idea that his clan had been left in Arlathan without a leader to guide them. If he had known, he would have left the clan center they now stood in to retrieve his people.

After a second, when he felt like his vision was darkening, things going tunnel, one of the members of the clan distract him.

His vision cleared.

He took a deep breathe, forcefully making himself breathe. And settled into conversation with a clanmate. A pretty woman, she'd once vied for his attentions. They'd had but a night or two together, before he'd moved on.

They'd had another night together, when she'd brought him supplies in the past few months. She'd come alone, sought to calm a harrowed man's soul.

Nothing could fix this. Could fix him.

But she was a good distraction, green forest eyes and sun-dappled skin. Hands calloused from years of fishing and whittling.

Xochipilli was distracted by the progress of the well, a divot was forming but not much more. He excused himself from his distraction, and moved towards Carasson.

Slowly, hesitantly. The pendant glowing as he used his magic helped ease his fear. And eventually, the Keeper stood behind the other man. Here, fingers reached for Cara's hands, to reposition them. You need to make circular movement, or the well won't stand on its own. He did not have this particular ability, but he had taught many who did.

His voice was steady, as he shared some of his power with his First. He wasn't certain that title applied to Carasson anymore, but... he'd always be his First, in his mind.

Keep doing that motion. He'd release the man's hands now, and step just beside of him. He began to will the water underneath the ground to follow him, and eventually between the force of his hydromancy and the gentle creation of the well from Carasson's geomancy, they'd start to see a proper opening with water bubbling at the bottom.

They'd continue until the well was mostly full, and Chip leaned into it, tested it's stability.

Good job. You... you did well. He murmured, bit his lip. He'd usually praise Cara with enthusiasm, but now...

He just couldn't find that enthusiasm right now.

Someone from the group handed a bucket over, and he scooped the bucket into the water, a vine manifesting and tying itself around the handle of the bucket.

Thank you.

Without another word, Chip focused on the clan, Well... since you're here, and there's more of you than before, the shelters I've rebuilt won't do. We have water, hunters can find food. His voice echoed through the clearing, though he did not speak loudly.

Children and supervising adults can fish, while the rest of you help to rebuild the clan. He flashed the group a smile.

And don't whine, or act as if you've never done this before, Varahel. Help your Arlathan counterparts, as we do not know their stories. He had no idea if the elves that had come through were alienage refugees like he'd been hearing rumors about, or other Dalish.

[color=#c0f0c6].[/color] [color=#17b529].[/color][color=#008e02] .[/color]

The clan would be rebuilt, and perhaps it would mean more because they helped. He couldn't say, right now. He was too busy watching Carasson. Not... in a fearful way. The long the other man was near, with no issue, the easier Chip found it was to breathe. He kept his distance, and was reminded of a time before he'd ever made a move on the First. When he'd not wanted to hurt Inala (look how well that went, Chippy). 

Eventually, he slipped towards the man and the current project he was doing, hands in his pockets. He'd join him, silently, for a while. They had nothing to talk about; except that they had a lot to talk about. After a long, drawn out silence, Xochipilli settled against the half-built shelter. His head in his hands. And his voice, it sounded small, quiet: I'm... sorry, that I didn't listen to... to you. If he had, none of this would have happened. 

I'm... He was sorry. He'd made a promise and then he'd manipulated that promise into something he could handle. Or he thought he could handle it.

This was far more than he deserved. In a way it made this all so much worse, knowing that even in this, Chip could still manage to stand in his presence. It was something he'd not been able to manage himself. There were times in the last two months that all Carasson wanted to do was claw his way out of his mortal prison and find some pocket of the Fade to spend the rest of his ruined existence. Even then he couldn't shake the cowardice of the notion that would follow him throughout that ruined existence. 

So suffering through this painful reality was exactly what he deserved, if not considerably less than. Certainly, there was no reality wherein such an intimate touch from a man he'd tried to kill was expected. Not that it was unwelcome, but Cara suddenly found himself at odds with body. While his muscles tensed with anticipation, cording down his arms through his hands they were manipulated, his mind raced with thoughts of danger, screams of pain, boiled blood....destruction. It was enough to make him hiss as if he'd been burnt himself and flinch ever so slightly away from the touch. He nodded solemnly, throat tight with nerves as he mimicked the corrected motion, causing the dirt to displace in a far more efficient manner than before. 

He cleared his throat, feeling his entire face turn numb. This was so much more than he expected; far more visceral and electric than he would ever be capable of imagining.  By the time he was finished per Chip's assessment, Carasson was rotted through with his emotions, frozen in time as he moved as if controlled by another soul. It was a painfully familiar sensation, one he hoped he'd never have to know again. He wet his dry lips and nodded stiffly as words continued to evade him. He certainly envied the Keeper's ability to coherently communicate and lead in the natural way he always had. He was made for leadership, that much was clear to anyone who cared to notice. 

The rest of the time ticked by easier than he thought it might as he busied himself with the other displaced clan mates. It was as close to normal as he'd felt in a long time now because even before the end things hadn't felt right in months, not since Falon'Din woke up from his slumber and started to gnaw at his soul. He was helping to rebuild their healing quarters, slat by slat of driftwood that made up most of the buildings throughout, when Xochipilli joined in. The silence was weighted between them, enough that some of the others seemed to notice and move to another side of the structure. It was clear some things needed to be said that weren't necessarily meant for their ears. 

Cara watched Chip sink to the ground, concern washing over his features. As he sunk down next to the other, his own words echoed in his mind. 

..or else I'll never forgive you..

He looked at his Keeper intently, eyes searching for something he didn't think he'd ever find again. Maybe he would never forgive Chip and maybe it was about something entirely more profound than forgive and forget. You did what you thought was right, He finally said in a shaky tone. I would've done the same and it was true. If he'd been presented with the same choices, there was no question. That he was a selfish man was never up for debate. He was wholly selfish in his relationships and he'd never apologized for it. He loved fiercely and with transparency. 

More silence and then he spoke again, his  hands wringing together. I remember all of it. He said finally.

Xochipilli was quiet, as Carasson tried to reassure him that he would have done the same. He refused to believe that; Cara had always been the stronger man. He'd always made decisions that were for the best of others... Chip simply did not see Carasson as selfish.

It's only when the First spoke that he remembered all of it, that Chip dared look at him. The Keeper's dark eyes searched questioningly, drifting to the way the other man was wringing his hands together.

And slowly, he reached to pull Cara's hands apart, fingers threading through his fingers. I'm sorry. I... hoped you wouldn't. I guess, I hoped that spirit would take those memories but... He frowned, squeezing the others hands tightly.

Carasson was just as traumatized as Xochipilli. He could see that, really see that now. I'm... alive. Mostly. Part of him had died each time Cara's body was used against him. Something had definitely died during that last battle, before the ex-Inquisitor got involved.

He studied his First, and pulled him forward, directing him to seat himself against the shelter they were building. I'm sorry that you remember. It was almost as bad as living through it.

The silence hurt the most. Not that he thought he was undeserving of this punishment, rather he wished that Xochipilli would rage aloud instead of encouraging the intrusive thoughts to cloud his mind. Silence wreaked far more havoc than anger ever would. 

When his hands were pulled apart and enveloped in a familiar embrace, Carasson felt his chest warm, letting a small part of his barrier to erode. His hand was limp before he flexed the muscles and returned a steady pressure. He shook his head solemnly, his heart breaking knowing that Chip felt to take the blame for any of this when he was a clear victim this entire time. Well he wanted me dead, so if this is the trade-off, I'll take it.

Never mind that there were fates far worse than death and this was one of them. His fate was living with the first hand memory of watching the man he loved wither under his control and the woman he loved in the wind all because of him. He'd once had it all and now there was nothing and no one, not really. Because how could he accept Chip and Inala back into his life knowing the truth behind it all. 

He swallowed a plug of nerves clogging his windpipe. He could barely look the other man in the eye, least of all accept that he was in any way at fault for what happened. His chin wobbled. All he could think about now was the feeling that gripped his soul when he saw the lifeless form at his feet. While Falon'Din reveled in the victory, Carasson wailed in mourning, trapped and forced to watch the damage done by his hand. 

He'd mourned his Keeper. 

He wiped frantically at his cheek, riding any tears that managed to escape his measured control. I'm sorry that you....I'm sorry I let this happen The truth was, he'd planned to leave initially when the blackouts started becoming more frequent. But then they shared that night together, and all of the sudden he couldn't leave because he refused to let go of something he'd been craving for close to twenty years at this point. 

Carasson swallowed. And Inala? Where is she? Recent memories of her were too few for his liking. 


Carasson's Anxiety Tells

1. excessive swallowing
   
2. hand wringing
   
3. lack of eye contact
   
4. topic change
   
5. the things he doesn't say
   

Xochipilli smiled slightly, as the other man grasped his hands and returned a firm, steady pressure. I think death would be preferable to this, don't you? He murmured the words, they fell from his lips like drops of acid. But somehow, I'm glad that we're... here. He was, on some level, glad that Carasson had come home.

Rough thumbs ran across the backs of Carasson's hands, it was the only thing he could think to do, given the way Cara swallowed, refused to make eye contact. He wondered if the other could not stand looking at him, now.

He averted his gaze when Cara apologized, when he noticed tears. The other man frantically wiped at his tears, and Chip exhaled softly. I'm... I want to forgive you. It wasn't... you, right? It was that spirit. He still didn't know its name. Nobody had told him.

One hand free, he curled his fingers through Cara's, and reached to brush his thumb under the others eyes. Don't cry. You'll make me cry. He huffed, an attempt at a weak laugh. It didn't land.

And then, he swallowed. And the topic shifted.

I'm... not sure. She went to find you. Thinking about Inala made dread settle in the pit of his stomach; he didn't want to think about her. He wanted to reconcile what he knew about Carasson, convince himself that he should forgive the man. That it hadn't been him, that none of it had been him.

A woeful sigh, shaky at its foundation slipped his lips. He blinked slowly, squeezing out any rogue tears as he willed himself to remain calm. It was oddly comforting to know that Chip agreed with him on the sentiment of death being the lesser of the evils they'd faced and yet however fortunate, he was still here. He'd seen evil the likes of which were world rendering, catastrophic, and come out the other side. Initially, surviving such an experience sounded like a boon, something to be congratulated for by others. A peak under the surface revealed a festering defeat. He was not the same elf that he was before he encountered the shard. 

That much was painfully true, and well documented. 

No-no! Of course not. the statement came out with far more assertiveness than he intended. Perhaps it was just a result of all the desperation he'd since coiled up inside.

Cara felt his heart lurch in his chest, what felt like an arrhythmia spidering across his chest the longer he considered the man in front of them. The hulking, indomitable Keeper of Clan Varahel. Xochipili wasn't just a keeper to their clan, he was everything the rest of them could not bear to become themselves. Xochipili was a blessing that Cara was starting to wonder had been a cruel temptation all along. There was no boasting about his merit and what he deserved for Cara had known since the beginning that his Keeper was far beyond anything he deserved. 

Inala was no different and now he'd lost both them. 

Hell, he'd lost Chi too, wherever she was. He averted his gaze to suck at his teeth in displeasure at her answer. A string of explicatives in their native tongue erupted then. He needed to find her and soon, but not before he got his fill from being reunited with Chip and, hopefully, their clan.

Have you named my replacement? He wanted to know who to pay deference to.

Chip squeezed Cara's hands, I forgive you. I forgive these hands for their mistakes, He pulled one of the other's hands into his, twining his fingers through them. Pressing a kiss to each fingertip, I forgive your magic, for the wrongs it was used for. He pressed another kiss to the center of Cara's hand.

And carefully, slowly, he released the others hand and reached to find his face. And I forgive this voice, and this mouth, for the things they were forced to say. His thumb brushed over Cara's lower lip, and he paused.

Tilting Cara's face, so that they could look one another in the eyes, he shook his head slowly. No replacement needed. You're my First. His thumb lingered, hand cupping Carasson's chin. When you take an apprentice, and you train them to replace you, only then will I consider it. And even then, it'd mean Cara was transitioning to Keeper which likely meant Chip was gone.

He leaned to kiss the other man, hesitant. Gentle. Chaste, for them. You and I will find our girls. Bring them home. We'll weather our memories, together, too. He paused, exhaling softly, And when we bring Inala home... we'll revisit her feelings on us. Like we should have, in the beginning. And he'd walk away, if he had to.

But that was neither here, nor there.

In a way he didn't want forgiveness, much as he needed to heal. It was like an ill-fitted suit choking the life out of him one guilt ridden second after the other. What Chip was offering wasn't proportional, wasn't something that Carasson felt he deserved. He averted his gaze, feeling himself step away though without any true conviction. He was still vulnerable to that pesky thing called hope that currently overwhelmed his reason. Ultimately didn't try any harder than tensing his muscles as his body was manipulated by the Keeper. He wanted to be worthy of this man but when he remembered that he'd never been worthy, it all started to fall apart taking with it his tenuous hope 

He looked at Chip like he was missing the most obvious thing. Unfair considering that much of what Cara was taught as a First was from the gargantuan man in front of him. Xochipili, he rasped, exasperated with the undeserved mercy now offered on a silver platter. He searched the other, brows furrowed in mounting desperation having never seemed to abate in the first place. Instead of pulling away, he pressed forward to brace on the massive shoulders and shake. Don't do this. Please. He would beg on his hands and knees if he was properly compelled. 

What I did was unforgiveable. Falon'Din gave the order but can you truly ever trust me again? Hate me for this. because earning my forgiveness is the only thing I have left. It was too generous to allow it all to go back to normal as if nothing happened. Though that was just the thing, Xochipili was too good a man.

Chip frowned, leaning into Carasson's touch. He was quiet, listening. And when the other man finished speaking, there was silence. Long, drawn-out. The kind of silence where one was thinking, considering. The man before him looked desperate—

After another moment, he spoke: Then consider this as step one, to earning my forgiveness in full. You'll stay as my First. He reached to find Cara's hands, fingers twining through his.

You belong here, with this clan. I picked you, so long ago, for a reason. Your skills. Your mind. He'd never chosen Carasson solely because he'd loved him. He'd been very practical in his decisions.

Cara, despite his waning, yet persistent resolve, deflated under the assuring words of his Keeper. He certainly was desperate, but then just about every moment in his life from the day he came to Varahel until now was desperate for the man wielding comfort like a physical implement. If there was a reasonable way to fault the man for being, Cara liked to think he might know it. As it was, he owed much of who he'd become towards Xochipili. 

Their fingers tangled. Chip, I-- He exhaled shortly, bringing their fingers to his lips. His eyes drifted shut. 

He wondered if there was some part of Chip, something similar to what dwelled deep in his own chest, that understood things could never truly be the same. That this was as much a moment of acceptance as it was of reunion. 

You always were too good, for us. In all of it, Chip had never seemed to waiver. His commitment to the clan, stalwart. Perhaps it was the problem as much as it was a solution. [i[The[/i] solution.

When Cara opened his eyes, he let them bore into his Keeper's. I accept.

Chip's eyes closed slowly, and he exhaled as his fingers were brought to the other mans lips. He let a sad chuckle leave his mouth, as Carasson declared that he was too good for them. You've made a good decision today. He squeezed the other's hand.

And they stood near enough, that if he leaned just a bit forward, their lips would brush. But he doesn't, instead he speaks, softly. I know that it's hard, to live with everything that happened... And, sometimes, I feel as though I'm drowning. He shifted, bringing Cara's hand to his mouth.

But I remember that it was not you. Not your mind making those decisions. He shifted, to tug a piece of the other's hand between his fingers.

Would it... help you, if we talked about it? It'd helped him with his drinking, when someone forced him to talk about it. He wasn't stupid, and he saw that the man in front of him was struggling.