Summary: Under a quiet full moon, Zevran's patience comes to a head, forcing Cyna to confront her secretive nature.
a/n: Written for Friday night dadrunkwriting on 4/1. Prompt sent in by superfluouskeys: "DWC: "Tell me you don't love me." And I'd love to hear about your Mahariel and Zevran; otherwise whatever pairing speaks to you! Original draft posted on my tumblr.
A Moment of Truth
The shadows danced across the floor like the curtains in the breeze. A softness cradled the night in near silence, but perhaps that had more to do with location of their room more than anything else. Cyna carefully moved the hand on her hip; its grip had been tight, protective and comforting, once they decided to sleep. But as he succumbed to his rest, the embrace loosened, which allowed her to slip from it and inch toward the edge of the bed where she sat up.
Her back bowed, with shoulders slumped in tension and fatigue, while her mind raced. Something was not right, she could feel it in her blood. But what? That she could not determine. She pushed her hand through her shorn black hair and stared at the edge of the decorative rug that lay beneath the bed, creating a small island of softness against the cold wood floor.
"Tell me you don't love me." His voice, though a mere whisper, peeled like chantry bells in the silence.
The demand came out of nowhere as Cyna battled with her own thoughts. She'd thought Zevran fast asleep, but perhaps she should have known better. When she turned, the sight lifted the corners of her mouth, through little will of her own.
The bluish light of the full moon flooding through the open window made his skin glow. Black, arcing strips—his tattoos—accentuated the shape and definition of his body, but allowed his keen eyes to remain hooded. His blond hair glistened, lying loose and smooth over his shoulder and curving across the muscular, flat plane of his chest as he leaned up on one elbow.
He embodied seduction, even without trying. Just like in the heat of battle when every lunge and lithe twist of his body bespoke a life of lethal training.
"What?" she finally asked, ending her contemplative stillness.
He edged toward her, seeming to float across the surface of the bed with the ease of fog gliding atop a lake. His hand was so warm, and hers so cold that when their hands clasped—and hers closed around his with as much haste and strength as his—it felt like plunging her hand in a crackling fire.
Everything about Zevran had become like that. He fought like a raging inferno—quick devastation as he flitted about the field like embers hoping between trees in a forest fire. Between the two of them, it had all started with hasty flash overs brought on by his smoldering glances and sizzling smirks, each paired with clever turns of phrase in that lilting Antivan accent. But neither those nor his blatant propositions caught the grief-doused, wet wood buried deep in her soul … at first.
No, for Cyna it had been his friendship and glimpses of his true nature that brought her to his fireside. Slowly, she'd grown accustomed to it, his heat, which dried the dank sorrow within her until a spark could finally catch. Eventually, she walked right into the blaze of her own volition. And she'd come to crave that connection, need that scorching warmth—needed him.
"Tell me you don't love me," he said again, looking her in the eye.
"Why would you want me to say such a thing?"
"Perhaps then I could explain why it is that you still, after all this time, try to sneak out of my bed once you think I'm asleep.
"I—" Her mouth snapped shut. She could not … well, would not lie to Zevran. He knew her too well, perhaps better than anyone. Except, Tamlen, she allowed herself to think. She felt the wrinkle of her nose, which was followed by the warmth of Zevran's skin skimming her own as he stood to bring them eye to eye, or at least closer than they had been.
"He still haunts you."
Cyna's chin lowered in shame and a desire to avoid the topic.
"Even after he freed you?" Zevran continued, his voice softened, held a bit less of the pained accusation that his tone had carried initially. "After you released him from his tainted existence?"
"No," she started, then changed her mind. "Yes."
He stepped away with a sigh that bordered between disgusted and tired.
"But it's not that simple," Cyna argued. "You saw him. Branka's people, or what was left of them. That thing in the Deep Roads."
"Of course, I did. But it has little to do with this," Zevran said, gesturing between them.
"It has everything to do with this. I'm—" Her mouth snapped closed before she could say tainted. "Tamlen and I were both in the ruins. I became ill, only Duncan found me. He saw no signs of Tamlen."
"And that is why you became a Grey Warden, yes?" He stood there, moonlight spotlighting him like some celestial being.
"Yes." Cyna lowered herself onto the edge of the bed with careful grace. "But it couldn't cure me. Taking the Grey could only delay my fate. Otherwise, I might have become like Tamlen by now. A dark husk on the way to succumbing to the darkspawn curse in my blood."
His brow furrowed. She knew the weight of that raw gesture. He avoided it because it caused such deep, unsightly creases in one's forehead. "But you are not sick."
"No, I don't look ill. I still carry the darkspawn taint in my blood, however."
"How can that be?"
She stared at the ceiling. "I've said too much already. I can't explain more."
"Ah, yes." His voice held that cunning she'd heard a few times, though only rarely did he direct at her. "Precious secrets of the Wardens," he spat.
"Zevran." She reached her hand out to him, palm up and up. "Zev, please. There is no one else."
"Of that I am assured, but reassurances are not what I seek."
"Then, please, tell me why."
Even under the shadow of his brow, Cyna could discern the piercing stare. "With such an admission, I could perhaps dash this pesky hope that leaves me clinging to one who prides herself in her distance."
Cyna's jaw dropped, then snapped closed in reflex to hide the effect his words had on her.
He crossed to her in the silence, bare feet slapping softly on the wood. "I love you, Cyna," he admitted. "You think you are protecting me by concealing the truth, but I assure you this is one lie that can only cause harm. Please, be honest with me."
He stood there before her, looking down at her with pleading eyes. As his fingers grazed her cheek, her hands went to her face and held his against her cheek. Pressing her face into his hand, she screwed her eyes closed. Upon opening them, she met his gaze again and asked, "The truth?"
Zevran nodded.
"Then I cannot tell you what you ask. I cannot tell you I don't love you." Of course, she also could not, in good conscience, say that she did either. "I care for you, Zev. More than I should. Can that not just be enough? For now?" she added after a brief pause and a deep breath.
His gaze searched hers in the silent darkness. She always found it odd how everything—even a breath or a heartbeat seemed amplified at night.
"For now," he finally agreed.
His lips, blazing and pliant, found hers. The kiss was as fragile as the tether binding them. One wrong move and it could break, perhaps to be repaired, or more likely, she feared, to be left sundered and just long enough for a noose.