The Hunter
For KCousland
Sol warmed her hands in front of the fire, shivering. They were snowbound, hopelessly disoriented and temporarily lost in the dense forests south of Gherlen's Pass. Two nights ago, a blizzard had swept in and blanketed the area with a thick coat of snow, deep enough to bury a grown dwarf to his beard and cold enough to freeze him there solid until spring. Sol wrapped her cloak around her a little tighter, the fur collar snuggling against her cheek, but the wind pulled at it, as if it wanted to curl up inside as well. Cold, she could manage. The bitter winds always seemed to slip between the stone at Kinloch Hold, scurrying over the floor and right into her bones. Maybe this was why fire was her element. She imagined that mages that preferred to conjure frost must come from Rivain or Antiva.
She looked over at her companions, their cloudy breaths swirled about their heads as they inched as close to the fire as they could without burning themselves.
"We've no food." Alistair said, blowing into his cupped hands. There was a hollowness in Sol's tummy, too, but that had become the last of her worries.
"Sounds like we need to organize a hunting party, my friends." Zevran announced, his cheeks pink with cold. He had his arms crossed and hands tucked under them. Nothing seemed to bother him, he was the only one to wear a smile that day; the rest of her companion's faces were fraught and dispirited. Sol imagined she'd find more cheer at a funeral. Thank the Maker for Zevran.
"A hunting party? It would be dangerous to split up, no?" asked Leliana.
"Either we split up or die of hunger as one big happy family." Morrigan gave the red-headed bard a wry glance as she threw more wood onto the fire, causing a thick smoke to billow in Alistair's face. A fit of coughing ensued.
"I'm not sure anyone's up for smoked templar…" he said, once he caught his breath.
Sol secretly enjoyed Morrigan and Alistair's bickering. When it happened, she felt somehow reassured that things were not as desperate as they seemed.
Oghren grumbled. He had not been on the surface long; it was a shame his first introduction to the open sky was in the middle of a snowstorm. It would be a good test of his mettle, Sol thought. He leaned on his axe and spit into the fire. "I'm not going anywhere. All this white stuff can just sod off. I reckon you'll be needing more firewood in a few hours anyway. This little baby was forged to split Darkspawn skulls in half. But, I'm sure it will crack some of those trunks over there as well."
Sten crashed through a thicket of trees with a log that had probably fallen some months before. Sol would have been amused to have watched the Qunari pull down a standing tree with his bare hands, but the sight of the greyed wood quickly tempered her over-active imagination. He was resourceful, if anything.
"Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bronto! A specimen I can test my theory upon." Oghren slung the axe to his shoulder and waded through the snow, a long muttering of expletives drifting in his wake.
Wynne's pulled expression told Sol that something had to be done. A warm and toasty fire would only keep them alive for so long. She suddenly felt the pressure to make a decision and, at that moment, realized that everyone was waiting for her to make up her mind.
"A hunting party, Zev? How many?"
"Two should suffice, I would think."
"And who do you think should go?" Despite the cold and the aching in her belly, the other hunger that had been pulling at her over the last few weeks had also surfaced. She had tried to tramp it down, knowing that those type of feelings would do nothing but get in the way of a survival situation. But, those high cheekbones, those arms.
"Let me be the first to volunteer for the task. Consider it part of my debt that I am to pay." Zevran announced without hesitation.
Ideas immediately swirled in Sol's head, like snowflakes caught in a gust of wind. She needed to find the perfect rationale, a fool-proof reason that the second party member should, without a doubt, be her. Superficially, it was a ridiculous plan. Conventional wisdom told that mages don't make good hunters and, until that moment, she had never demonstrated interest in the task. But, at the thought of just her and Zev, alone, deep in the quiet of the snowy wood, she shifted her weight, crossed her arms, and cleared her throat. She hoped it had a thoughtful effect, as if she had been mulling over the decision with great difficulty.
"Alistair, you should stay here. No need to risk the Fereldan throne for a bit of meat." Her statement seemed to come as some relief, although she was expecting a snarky retort. Thankfully, none came. She continued, emphasizing her point. "We'll also need a Warden here to alert anyone to Darkspawn."
A brilliant plan dawned on her. "And, since I can sense Alistair, I suggest that I be the one to accompany you, Zev. We can avoid running into any wayward Darkspawn and I can prevent us from wandering too far away from basecamp. With Alistair here, we'll quickly find our way back. " She wanted to pat herself on the back for her quick thinking. At first, she thought Leliana's talents with a bow automatically made her the most likely candidate, but this plan seemed iron-clad.
She scanned her companions, hoping not to find any contrary expressions. To her delight, they nodded in agreement, but it was more than likely that they were relieved to have not been volunteered. Whatever they thought of her plan, they kept to themselves, which was fine by Sol. Zev turned to her and winked. A different sort of shiver danced up her spine.
"I will get my bow, dear Warden." He disappeared into his tent.
Leliana plopped a fur cap on Sol's head. "You'll need to stay warm. Magic won't be of much use to you out there." She handed Sol a quiver of arrows and a bow. The mage wanted to protest, but understood the kindness in the Chantry lay-sister's gesture. Everyone's hunger now rested on her success.
"Warden, I prefer my meat cooked, not charred." Morrigan said, squatting near the fire, poking the coals with a large stick.
As Zevran emerged, Wynne passed her a small wrapped package. "Take half of the dried meat. Do take care of yourself."
"Now we wait." Zevran insisted that they perch in the crook of an oak nearest a gnarled apple tree. The tree was all but bare, but beneath were the unmistakable tracks of a deer that had been recently digging in the snow for the fallen fruit.
Sitting in a tree was not what Sol had had in mind when she had cooked up this adventure. To be honest, she had no idea what to expect, but they weren't even sitting on the same branch. Zev had settled in, as best he could, his bow flat in his lap, with an arrow nocked at the ready. Sol amused herself for the next few moments, trying to find a comfortable position. A balance between comfort, warmth, and the practicality of holding her short bow was elusive. In the end, she chose comfort, admitting that there was little chance that she'd fire the killing shot. She'd be lucky to hit the apple tree.
"I have not had to lie in wait for a long time, it seems that I am out of practice." Zevran said after a while, with a cloud of frosty breath.
Sol had never done such a thing and was beginning to think that she was the last person that should have volunteered for the task.
"What do you do to pass the time?" she asked. She thought that hunting would be as engrossing as exploring an ancient ruin, or battling Darkspawn in the Deep Roads. No such luck. Hunting was dead boring. There was a lot of watching, a lot of waiting, and the unspoken need to stay quiet. Sol was not particularly good at any of these things.
"I think of beautiful women. Today, however, I am lucky to have the pleasure of being in the presence of one."
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. It did not matter how much she wanted to hear it, the words still woke the butterflies in her tummy. If she were not already a terrible shot, her giddiness would surely ruin any attempt.
"Isn't that distracting? Aren't you supposed to be focused on what's going on around you?"
"Mmmm, perhaps. I am distracted today." His gaze drifted over her; he barely smiled. If her tummy were not so hollow she might hint toward other activities. But, then again, she doubted she had the tenacity to be so direct.
"Then, we shall starve, will we not?" she whispered.
He grew quiet again and she did not disturb his thoughts. Snow began to fall, the forest was hushed, quiet; a perfect calm. She watched the white flakes settle on his golden hair, on his broad shoulders. His eyes scanned the clearing and she could almost see him calculating the position of every tree, the slope of the snowdrifts and the direction of the wind. A flake settled on his cheek, just below his eye. It took all of her resolve to not reach out and brush it away. With a flick, he did it for himself and noticed she had been watching him.
He kept his voice low. "Sometimes, I think of my greatest desire, when I wish to be distracted, that is. Distractions are good. Keeps one on their toes."
She lied. "Then, at the moment, food is my distraction." She wanted to kick herself and wished she had alluded to her real source of hunger.
"Ah yes, the whole purpose for being stuck in this very uncomfortable tree. Back in Antiva, they have a wonderful delicacy that I would pay a hefty price for at this moment."
"Tell me about it." She imagined it would involve fish.
"Ah! A plate of this can distract any man in the middle of an Antivan whorehouse. Fried potatoes, sliced very thin, then drenched in a rich, hot gravy and topped with the finest cheese."
Sol wrinkled her nose at the thought of it.
"Do not dismiss it, my dear Warden. It is as delicious as it is sinful. And then of course there is the sweet syrup that we make in the spring. It comes from the sap of a local tree." He looked at her and cocked an eyebrow. "I could think of an interesting way to serve that syrup to you."
He was about to go on, but his head snapped to the side. He grew silent again and slowly raised his bow. With the grace of a cat, he took aim. There was a soft creak of sinew and ironbark, the whisper of the fletching brushing past his tattooed cheek. Sol took account of the clearing. It was quiet and empty, just as it had been the moment before. Zevran did not move. And then, from between a thicket of birch, wandered in a tentative buck, his underbelly as white as the snow beneath him. On dainty hooves, he negotiated through the snow, silent. His ears flicked and Sol held her breath, daring not even to breathe until Zevran got in his shot. She gripped her bow, in fear that she would let it go.
It pawed the snow beneath the tree and Zev leaned forward, his arm straining until finally he loosed his arrow. Her heart stopped and she watched the thing shudder. A groan, a sort of wheeze came from it, and it wobbled about drunkenly. Sol froze. Without a word, Zevran nocked another arrow and let it fly. This time, the buck collapsed. It happened so fast that she was unsure what to do next. Zev grinned at her crookedly.
"We shall have full bellies tonight. Come. I will show you how to prepare the carcass."
Never had something so gruesome sounded so completely sexy. Zevran had that effect on her. She nodded and jumped into the snow beneath the tree. Just as she landed smack on her rump, wounding only what little of her pride remained, a glint of silver caught her eye from her companion's direction. He had taken no time to pull out a blade from his boot and was about to make quick work on the stag.
Since her initiation with the Wardens, killing had become part of her routine. But, there was something distant and removed about it. It helped that, most of the time, she preferred to lurk in shadow and wield magic. This act that Zevran was about to perform, seemed so intimate, so direct.
"Come, we have to hang it. It would be best to leave it for a week, but I fear we do not have the time. Let us leave it overnight, and then we shall drag it back to basecamp for butchering. Sound like a plan?" Zevran was tramping through the snow, pulling out a coil of rope from a backpack. His body language spoke of his familiarity with the task. Without another word, he kneeled into the snow, sliced open the leg, found the Achilles tendon, and wove the rope through in one graceful movement. He tipped his head toward her and gave her a bit of a wink. He stood and shrugged off his coat.
"I am finding it too warm. If it please you, could you hang it over on that tree so it does not get wet?" As she took the woolen coat, his thumb traced the back of her hand. For a moment, she paused and looked deeply in his eyes. Again, she was torn between the hunger that lay in wait and the urgency of the task at hand. Across the clearing she tramped, snow seeping in the top of her boots. She cussed under her breath—there was nothing more uncomfortable than cold, wet feet. A grin grew across her face as she hatched another plan. She was quite sure that he would assist in helping her warm them up at some point, once the sun had sunk below the horizon. And from her best estimation, that would be in a few hours.
She found a knobbly old tree, hung up the cloak, and then leaned against it, momentarily mesmerized at the sight of his lithe form in action. Stealing the moment, she studied how his chest filled out the light leathers and defined the broad curves of his shoulders. As he threw the rope over a thick branch to hang the venison, his hair fell into his eyes. He gave his head a slight toss to move it from his field of vision. She grew warm with pleasure as she watched.
But, before her thoughts took her further, the hairs on her neck stood on end. From the edge of the wood, another set of amber eyes bore into hers. She heard the low guttural growl before Zevran could react. Still securing the knots, he only turned when she cried out his name. Only then did he see the wolf, creeping low to the ground, teeth bared in full. It leaped and, in that instant, all Sol could make out was a blur of Zevran's leathers and grey fur. Quickly recovering from her own terror, she closed in, starting to work a spell in her mind—a maelstrom of energy she syphoned from the Fade. Her heart pounded with each step she took. Closer, you've got to get in closer; you've only got one shot at this.
Amid the tangled frenzy of fur and limb, she heard the sharp snap of the wolf's dagger-like teeth. Zevran, keep still, she wanted to say, but instead focused on her target. She let out a paralysis spell, ripe with the entirety of her energy, saving none for a second round. One wrong move and that would be the end of Zevran. Her eyes drilled into the back of the wolf and pushed all that churning energy from deep inside her mind, through her arms and out the tips of her fingers.
The wolf let out a quick yelp. Zevran collapsed into the snow and she pulled her own knife from her hip and rushed in, pulling it across the animal's neck. For a split second, all she saw was a gnarling hurlock and her rage took over. And then, reality sunk in. Blood seeped into the snow. It was over. She rushed over to Zevran.
His face was white like milk, expressionless. She placed a hand on his chest and held her ear to his mouth. His breathing was regular. Afterwards, she stumbled around, reacting to every noise, considering the countless things that she had to do and debated which to do first. The snow was now falling in earnest. She needed to get a fire started to keep them both alive through the night as well as establish a safe shelter in order to assess the full extent of his injuries. She also needed time; another set of hands would have come in handy as well. Part of her confusion was due in part to expending so much of her energy with that critical spell. Still groggy and dazed, she felt as if she were wading in an icy slurry.
When her concentration returned, she spied Zev's pack near the base of a tree—he had the tent. Running to it, she retrieved his cloak and covered him. He was starting to shiver. She had to work fast. Dumping the contents of the well-packed bag onto a patch of naked ground, she quickly took inventory and identified those items that would meet her most immediate need: canvas, rope, some knives, and a rough woolen blanket. She had been living out in the wild long enough to no longer feel intimidated at the thought of pitching a tent. It did not take her long, nor did she waste any time to drag him inside. By the time she had banked the tent with snow, dusk was quickly approaching. The deep-blue horizon stood in stark contrast to the white-coated forest.
She stared into the darkening wood, debating how necessary a fire would be. Her teeth chattered, answering her own question. Although she already sensed the answer, she conjured a small fire spell in the palm of her hand. It spit and sputtered, indicating the slow return of her power. Lyrium was always in short supply, and she now regretted leaving it all with Wynne and Morrigan. At the time, she had thought it was more important to conserve it for any future Darkspawn encounter. It seemed a waste to bring it on a hunting trip. It was also very stupid of her to leave all of her healing supplies in Wynne's trust.
In the waning light, she scrounged what wood she could without wandering too far from the clearing. Her hands felt thick and were now starting to ache as she dug out the snow to the bare ground. She was barely able to snap the firewood into smaller pieces. With the last of her energy, she blasted the wood with her own fire and quickly went to work on Zevran.
So rarely did he require her healing; he always slipped past danger unnoticed, quick and silent as a shadow. He lay motionless as she worked and it worried her. She breathed into her hands and rubbed them together, focused with renewed urgency, and opened her mind again to the Fade. Her connection was weak, but there.
After she had loosened his clothes, she hoped to see why he had grown so quiet; but nothing obvious stood out—a more thorough examination was required. With trembling hands, she traced down his bare chest, noting the roadmap of silver scars. Her hunger for him returned, but she bit her lip and willed herself to remain focused. Continuing downward, she skipped past his groin, feeling somewhat torn, but concluded that, in all probability, the source of his ailments would not be located there. Her eyebrows rose in pure satisfaction when she noticed that, even in his incapacitation, the area was both full and firm. She continued, grasping, squeezing both taut thighs. No injury came to mind. She sat up and crossed her arms, considering the situation a little more thoroughly. Before turning him over, she plunged her hands into his thick hair, massaging his scalp, until it became clear. Her intuition tugged and pulled at her, identifying the source of his injury.
She took a deep breath and channeled all that she could wrench from the Fade, feeling bone knit and bruises fade. Sweat had started to bead over her lip and, once she was finished, she sat back and caught her breath.
With great relief, she saw his long eyelashes flutter. His eyes opened a crack and then a grin formed at the corner of his mouth.
"I see you have started without me."
His voice was deep and husky, full of want. She remained locked in his stare as he perched on his forearm. His hair fell past the carved angles of his cheekbones and shadows played over the contours of his smooth chest, reflecting the golden firelight from outside their tent. He smiled crookedly again and pulled his finger through his hair and felt the area that she had just healed.
She managed to speak, barely above a whisper. "How do you feel?"
His response came as a quick pat on the blanket beside him. Without a word, she shifted over, lying on her side. His finger traced down her cheek, over her lips. With temptation so close, she lightly sucked the tip, but allowed him to further explore her. Lower he traced, squeezing her breast through the layers of clothing she had yet to remove. She would allow him that pleasure. Her hands returned to the warmth of his chest and she allowed herself the pleasure of letting them dance over the firmness, tracing a finger over each scar. It was too irresistible; she leaned in, and sketched her tongue up a long line over his breastbone and peppered kisses up his neck.
He found her lips though, at first, he hovered on hers lightly, like the snowflake on his cheek. Slowly, he pulled away. Her heart drummed in her chest, her centre thrummed in yearning as he stared deeply into her eyes. The thought of the wolves returning had crossed her mind but, before the idea could fully form, Zevran whispered in her ear, taking a soft nibble when he was done. "Now you are the hunter and I am your prey."
She made quick work of her outerwear—half afraid she might lose her nerve. When she was down to her cotton tunic, Zev's hand reached up underneath; his fingers danced across her belly and quickly found her breast. He rolled her nipple between his thumb and finger and brushed it ever so lightly with the palm of his hand. She arched her back, then manoeuvered over top of him, straddling his growing need. In one graceful movement, she removed her tunic. She leaned forward, his head between her arms and grinned down at him. His hands glided up her bare back, warming her exposed skin from the wintery drafts.
For countless nights, she had lain alone, wishing, hoping, yearning. And now, suddenly, the delicacy of this moment had caught up with her. She sat up, enjoying the pressure in her centre, grinding her hips to heighten the sensation. There was no rush. There was an entire night, just for them.